


Orange Lilies

by storiewriter



Series: Bentley Farkas and Friends [26]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Transcendence, Betrayal, Cults, Demons, Detectives, Family, Gen, Kidnapping, Magic, Nightmare Sheep, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Kissing, Not for real, Police, Reincarnation, Suicidal Intentions, Transcendence AU, because what's a bentley fic without nightmares?, bentley's going to be traumatized, happen, in a dream, light body horror, mention of future deaths, mention of past OC deaths, of the kamikaze variety, ok kids you have to read Xonge to get this one, which are averted but yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 94,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiewriter/pseuds/storiewriter
Summary: Torako's in her last year of Grad School, doing the senior practical Internship at  the municipal police station. Bentley is working as a lab researcher for runic advancements in a new company. Dipper is trying to reconnect with reincarnations of other souls in the wake of Philip's death and his own sharp awareness of Torako and Bentley's mortality. Things are...working.And then everything goes wrong.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I don't need to be writing this. I need to be printing, or figuring out what to write for my fiction class, or doing JET applications, or studying Japanese. But no. I am writing this.  
> Title and summary are working ones.

           The study was large and well-lit by two giant windows, whose thin, magically reinforced-glass somehow seemed to let in more sunlight than they should be capable of. In front of the shorter window at the head of the room sat an off-white desk, which hummed low as it hovered a few feet off the floor. Along its underside was a dim blue glow, and on its front were several buttons and sliders. On it were a few old physical books, stacked carefully, a pair of archivist gloves laid on top of them. A blank journal sat next to the stack, closed, a ballpoint pen marking the writer’s progress close to the leather back. Behind both of them was a clear crystal vase filled with orange lilies, placed there by the owner’s housekeeper on request.

            Perpendicular to the desk was a long couch, a sharp red in the light environment of the room. On that couch, leaning against the rightmost armrest, sat a person, pale-skinned and pale-clothed. Their hair was styled to curl close to the scalp, layered in deliberate arcs. Their eyes, such a dark brown that they were almost black, were trained on the Reader in their hands, skin tinted pale blue by the glow of the holographic screen. They were frowning.

            They tapped their fingers on the canvas cover of the armrest and swallowed. After a moment, they scrolled down the Reader’s surface with the thumb resting on the edge of the screen. They read, and read, and then stopped mid-sentence, only to cast their gaze up a few lines and reread, slower this time.

            “Power to curse,” they murmured, tone smooth with years of speaking experience. They stopped tapping the arm of the couch. “Alcor’s demonic energy found in their victims…”

            They looked up and over at the desk, at the orange lilies sitting under a stasis spell that extended their shelf life. They stood slowly, setting the Reader down on the couch as they did so, long fingers tugging down the semi-formal blouse they wore. Taking three steps towards the desk, their feet bare against the ash wood floorboards, they waved away the desk chair with a languid motion. They then stood before the desk, thighs pressed against the edge, fingers hovering over the lurid petals. Breathing in, they canted their head just slightly to the side, and then set their fingers on the smooth surface.

            For a moment, nothing. Then, they jerked their hand back, hissing in a sharp breath and cradling their fingers close to their chest. They stared at the flowers, eyes wide, lips pressed together. Their shoulders were tight, their stance uneven and drawn back in an uncharacteristically frightened manner. There was no new quiet in the room, no new noise, but a sort of tension set itself to the air, drawing particles into and against each other. Their fingers twitched against the silky fabric of their shirt, cool against too-warm, and eventually they pulled their gaze away from the flowers and to their own hand.

            They relaxed their shoulders and straightened their fingers, looked down at the pads of them. The fingertips were red and shiny in the way the newest, thinnest layer of skin always is, blood pumping through delicate veins just under the fragile surface. The whorls and lines of the epidermal ridges were faint there, barely formed, too young to have been shaped completely. They would have to change security requirements until the skin had fully formed.  

            The person held their injured hand up to the light, only a slight tightening at the edges of their eyes a sign of their residual discomfort. Steam, barely visible even with the sunlight behind the fingers, untwisted itself into the air, dispersing with no sound and barely any motion.

            “You will burn,” they murmured into the humming stillness, “wherever they touch you.” They looked up to the ceiling and sure enough, along the edges, warning runes glowed just enough to be visible to the discerning eye. Demonic energy. The person looked back to their burned-raw fingertips, and their face smoothed out the signs of pain and fear.

            “I don’t know whether to be happy or upset,” they said, slightly louder and still to themselves. They reached down with their good hand and brushed the archivist gloves off the books and onto the leather bound journal. Snapping their fingers to dim the windows, they slid the glove on using the knuckles of their burned hand and glanced over the title to the topmost book. _Gleeful, Silent, Ferocious: Following the soul of ‘Mizar’ through three lives_.

            Carefully, they pulled one orange lily out of the crystal vase, making sure the water running down the stem did not drip on the valuable books. They thumbed one petal, fabric between skin and plant, and waited.

            Nothing happened.

            Their eyelids rose just a fraction, and they replaced the orange lily in the vase. They did not let go of the stem until the bottom of it hit crystal; only then did they withdraw. “If you are Mizar,” they said, dropping their hands to their sides, still staring at the flowers in the vase, “then I wonder what _you_ might be called, Bentley Farkas.”

            They tipped their chin up, stared at the fading runes on the ceiling, and blinked once, slowly. The desk hummed, but nothing else made sound in the study, darkened by the dimmed sunlight filtering in through the windows.

            “I wonder,” they said, and then looked back down, at the book. They did not smile, did not frown—just reached their hand out, still in the archivist’s glove, and ran their fingers over the embossed lettering of the title. “I wonder.”


	2. The Message from Meung-soo Ellig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bentley goes grocery shopping and gets an email , Torako discusses The Case with Officer Nathan, and Dipper visits a special someone across the world.

“Hey, are you going grocery shopping after work?” Torako asked as she tapped her stylus against the top of her desk. It was her final year of grad school, and Practical Demonology students had to do a semester to year of internship work—for her, that meant she was working at the municipal police station.

            “Yeah, we’re low on bread and organics and candy. Butter too. Probably some other things. I’m just getting out of the lab, so I should be home a bit after you are, assuming you’re still at the station.” On the other end, there was a rustle of clothing. “Anything you need?”

            Torako grinned. “Moffios!”

            Bentley sighed in her ear. “No, Torako.”

            “Why not?” Torako asked, spinning the stylus on her knuckle and telling herself that she was not, in fact, whining. “I don’t play hurling anymore, so I don’t have a coach that forbids them!”

            “Torako, they’re literally advertised as 100% sugar. No.”

            There was motion out of the corner of Torako’s eye, and she turned to see her supervisor’s unimpressed blood-shot eyes. She grinned and held up a finger. “But they’re not banned! I can eat them if I want, I’m a full grown adult!”

            “That’s true,” Bentley said. “But you can also go out and buy them yourself if you want to eat them, because I’m not doing it for you.”

            “You jerk!” Torako said, but she was smiling. “Jeez, you know what Tyrone would say to that?”

            “Yes, yes, that I’m besmirching the continuity of the Mabel-line, I know, but Tyrone also has a tendency to stick his head too far up his own ass regarding this matter, so I don’t really care too much about his opinion,” he said.

            She huffed. “Fine then, be that way. I have to go anyways, so enjoy your boring shopping trip filled with dumb necessary adult things and no glorious Moffios.”

            “Ah, yes,” Bentley said. She could hear clicking and whirring and then a door sliding open in the background. “The peace, the quiet, however will I stand it.”

            Torako snorted. “All right you dork, I’m hanging up now. Love you.”

            “Love you too,” Bentley said, and he disconnected the call. Torako pulled her earbud out and slid it into the tiny pocket dimension in the phone—the new Naaama model, 3029— then looked back up at her supervisor. “Hey Officer Nathan.”

            Officer Nathan closed his eyes and rubbed at them carefully with his hands, even though his iron nails wouldn’t have done more than scratched his durable skin. “You know, sometimes I wonder why we still have you on,” he said, voice hissing against his iron teeth.

            “Because my work is impeccable and you’ve solved two dead cases since I came on last September,” Torako said, putting on her widest grin. “So you can put up with my idiosyncrasies and the tendency to call my platonics at any moment!”

            Officer Nathan half-opened his eyes; the light, milky-blue irises were almost white against the veins in his sclera. “That is true. How are they, anyways?”

            Torako tipped back in her chair and pressed the stylus up under her bottom lip in thought. “Well,” she said, “Ty’s been off for a week, visiting relatives I think, so I think he’s doing okay! Ben’s a little stressed because of work and all the responsibility, but I make sure that he gets enough sleep so that helps. How about yours?”

            Officer Nathan frowned. “She’s been better. Sick because some shit stabbed her with holly on the side of the street.”

            Torako stopped leaning back and sat up straight. “Holly? Seriously? Doesn’t that—”

            “Cause infections in Asanbosam, yeah. I’ve got a buddy looking into it. She’s fought the worst of it off, but it was scary the first couple days. Lucky there were people nearby that spooked the person off.” Officer Nathan shook his head. “But that’s not why I came over here. You have anything regarding the Tupperman Warehouse case?”

            She nodded, and filed the information about Officer Nathan’s wife away in the back of her head. Maybe she and Ben could make something for her. “Yeah; the remains of the circle left behind look like they belong to Alû; ancient Sumerian, am I right? But yeah, you know, Alû’s a vengeance demon that kind of edges in on dream demon categorization. It’s weird.”

            “I don’t know, explain.”

            Torako nodded. “Okay, so Alû like, goes after its victims—whether these are victims of deals or just like grudge matches—at night and freaks them out with nightmares while they sleep. Sometimes this happens over a course of weeks, and they eventually become so frightened and paranoid that they develop hallucinations, in part due to lack of sleep. It usually ends in suicide, and that’s when Alû comes in and tears apart the remains. It, uh, doesn’t have any face other than eyes—like, no mouth, or ears, or nose—so it kind of. Eats with its eyes. It’s really interesting but also really gross.” Once, when Bentley wasn’t around, she had Alcor demonstrate ‘eating with his eyes’ for her out of sheer curiosity. Five seconds in, Torako had to excuse herself to go sit by the bathroom door just in case.

            “Sometimes?” Officer Nathan asked, crossing his arms and leaning against Torako’s desk. It hummed a little louder and wobbled before stabilizing under his weight.

            “Other times, it forcibly possesses the victim—this is only in cases of contractual victims, because otherwise Alû doesn’t have the power to override a soul like that—and locks their consciousness in a nightmare world. They’re being traumatized on the inside, but on the outside we don’t know what’s going on because they’re unconscious and comatose. It’s hard to tell apart from sleep paralysis, which is frustrating because, well, it takes time to figure things out.”

            “What about demonic signature? Shouldn’t that differentiate things?”

            Torako nodded. “It does! But Alû’s crafty about weaving its signature into something subtle. It’s not like Alcor, whose signature is like a rave party broadcasted through an entire city, or blunt and unrefined like Zmeu. Ah—that’s the one that likes to feast on young female flesh, you know, what happened two years ago in Canada around Minneapolis. Anyways, because Alû’s signature is harder to pull out, diagnosis takes more time, and most people don’t even _know_ about Alû so they don’t think to do the tests.”

            Officer Nathan pressed his thin lips together. “So we should keep an eye out for sleep paralysis cases. I’ll send a note to the hospitals in the area, make sure they do the necessary tests—will they have that information?”

            “It should be in their procedural guidebooks, but if you want, I can research their procedure and send it to you to forward them,” Torako said. She flipped her tablet on and scrawled a note to herself. “If they don’t find anything—the victim should have been admitted by now—following things up will be a shitton harder. Normally there would be an item of the victim’s presented to Alû in order for the right victim to be pursued, but the officers got to the scene too late; too much was cleaned up for me to figure that information out.”

            Officer Nathan pushed off the desk and rubbed at his eyes again. The desk’s hum rose to a squeal for just a moment, and then stabilized again. Torako eyed it with distrust; she saw what had happened to Intern Kina’s the other day. “Shit,” he said.

            “Yeah.” Torako switched back to the case document she’d been searching through. “And there’s another thing.”

            “There’s always another thing,” Officer Nathan said with a short laugh.

            “Underneath the circle for Alû, there was another circle,” Torako said. She located the right image gallery and opened it, flipping to the picture with the evidence. “Another recent circle. Like, back-to-back recent.”

            Officer Nathan started. “What kind of cult has that much energy and that many supplies to be able to do that? And still be alive at the end of it?”

            “More common than you’d think,” Torako said, “but still a bit worrying, yeah. It might be good to keep an eye out for more activity too.”

            He jammed his thumbs into his belt-loops, closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Because what cult would use resources so quickly if they didn’t have them to spare. Of course.”

Officer Nathan stopped speaking, but Torako waited for him to continue; he had a tendency to gather his thoughts before giving orders.

Finally, he opened his eyes and said, “I’ll do a preliminary report to Sergeant Plisetsky tomorrow morning, but I need you to get together a presentation probably for tomorrow afternoon. This might end up being above your pay grade, but to be honest, Special Investigator Rothlisburger was called down to Charlotte and we might end up needing a Demonologist, even if she’s a cheeky student like you.”

            Torako grinned, but pulled up another note on the stylus. “All right, presentation of evidence for tomorrow. I’ll get that together tonight; is it all right if I bring work home?”

            Officer Nathan snorted. “Kid, as long as you keep people who don’t need to be seeing these things from seeing them, there’s no issue. Lord knows that there isn’t a policeman here who doesn’t take work home with them.”

           “Awesome,” Torako said. She tapped the tablet off and collapsed it so it would be easier to slide into her bag. “Then, I’ll be taking off if there’s nothing else to do?”

            “Go on,” Officer Nathan said, waving her off. “No reason for you to stick around.”

            Torako pulled her bag from under the desk and gave Officer Nathan a sloppy salute. Stuffing her work tablet and the containers from lunch into the bag, she thought about dinner. They needed to make something tonight, and it was probably going to be just her and Bentley, so maybe she could surprise him.

            Fish, she thought. There was that salmon in the freezer. That would be good.

-

            The kid—twenty years old, so Dipper supposed that the kid wasn’t really a kid-kid by human standards—tipped his head back onto the bed and tapped his forehead twice before canting a finger outwards in greeting. “Yo, Alcor, what’s up?”

            Dipper spoke in Dashto without even meaning to. “The unspeakable horrors lying in wait about two galaxies away around the star known to them as –” he clicked and gargled out syllables unmanageable by a human throat. “I’m doing okay, though.”

            The kid snorted and swung his legs onto the wall, feet just underneath a holographic poster of the movie _Making Mine Monday_. “You speak as weird as ever. But really, what’s up?”

            “Just checking in,” Dipper said, flipping upside-down midair. “Making sure you were holding out okay. Weren’t your parents acting funny last time?”

            “You mean yesterday? Yeah, I figured it out; _Mora_ seems pretty clueless, but _Oare_ knows something’s up. I caught her checking things out with the Specreader, so you gotta lay low. Lucky it wasn’t _Owera_ , because he’d catch on faster.” The kid threw a ball up against the wall and caught it on the rebound. The holographic poster fizzed, and the image rippled at the point of impact for a few seconds before it stabilized again.

            Dipper raised his eyebrows and flicked the kid’s forehead. Wendy’s reincarnations really had no fear, he thought as the kid flicked him back without batting an eye. Kid had known him two weeks, and aside from the first hasty (but powerful) spell thrown at his face upon initial contact, Batoor hadn’t so much as flinched at him.

            Well, aside from the residual trickle of _olirange_ in his aura, but that both satisfied Dipper and was insignificant enough that he could put it out of mind. “Cheeky.”

            Batoor shrugged and threw the ball against the wall again. “I figure that you haven’t killed me yet, so why not?”

            There was something Batoor didn’t say there, but Dipper could well enough imagine what it was; it wouldn’t be the first time somebody researched him after a first meeting. “Eh, don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

            The kid frowned and looked up at him. The hints of blue scales around his eyes, a byproduct of a difficult and unusual birth, made the brown irises somehow more vibrant. “What does that even mean? Chickens always hatch from their eggs, why would the number be different?”

            Dipper folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Words are wasted on you.”

            After a short pause, Batoor reached out and pushed at Dipper’s forehead. Dipper squawked and began to flip around, brushing at his forehead as he did so. He caught sight of the window as he turned around, and looked out it—the Hindu Kush mountains rose in the near distance, their terraced sides green and pale with crops and trees before the mountains grew too high and became grey dappled with white. Dipper knew that hundreds of miles south lay the Kabul river, orange from the mix of old curses and counter-curses. He didn’t know many beings that dared drop in those waters, though when refined it was fine for consumption. Dipper remembered dragging his claws through the topmost layer of the river a few centuries ago, just out of idle curiosity; despite the lack of physical form, his nails had been burned down to the bed before he’d cut off the magic.

            “But your parents,” Dipper asked again. “They’re really okay?”

            “I,” Batoor started, and then fell silent. Dipper immediately looked over at him, at the way Batoor’s strong eyebrows were furrowed so close together they were almost one. His aura was more fuchsia than lime, and worrying amounts of _inulean_ were threaded through, spiky and unstable.

            Dipper floated down onto the bed and sat on the covers. “Batoor?”

            Batoor shrugged. “Just arguments, and Oare has been shedding a lot. It’s nothing too unusual, and I don’t think it’ll get bad, but if it does…” He looked up at Dipper, then back at the _Making Mine Monday_ poster. “You. I can make a deal, right?”

            It took a lot of effort to squash down the instinctive leer and calculation of how much he could wring out of the human for as little power as possible. It might have shown in his eyes, but Batoor was looking away and Dipper was glad to have the extra moments to try to be a little less callous. “Of course,” he said instead. “There would be a price, but of course.”

            “Good then.” Batoor nodded to himself, and then threw the ball again. It landed square on the protagonist’s face, hair flying in the wind as her love interest lifted her off her feet. The ripples fanned out from there, making the hair seem like it was actually moving, and the love interest’s hijab moved and shifted under the weight of the impact as well. Then the picture was still, and Batoor grinned back at Dipper, teeth a little long from his transfer from womb to eggspace.

            “I have a bag of _Kadu Bouranee_ candies in the desk drawer,” he said. “Those in exchange for an hour of English tutoring? I have a test next Saturday.”

            The fuchsia was still there, but it was receding, the lime was growing, and sparking threads of _inulean_ were shifting to swirls of indigo. Dipper grinned wide and held out a hand, blue fire snapping to life. “ _Deal_ ,” he said.

-

            Bentley was just putting a second package of tofu into the cart when he felt his phone vibrate twice in his pocket. He held a hand over it, waited to see if it would buzz more, and then pulled it out to check the messages. Unsnapping and expanding the sides, the homescreen fizzed to life. He upped the opacity so that he could see the words better on the screen and then tapped the gently pulsing email application. Narrowing his eyes, he held one hand out and pushed the cart forward to the dairy section while he navigated to the new email in question.

            The cart edged to one side right as he saw the name _Meung-soo Ellig_. Looking up, he caught the eye of the other shopper, one he’d just been about to run into if it weren’t for the shopping cart’s detection and aversion field. He crinkled his eyes shut in apology. They waved it off, and then moved on, long hair swaying down to past their waist.

            Meung-soo Ellig. The name sounded familiar, but Bentley couldn’t place it for certain. He anchored the cart so that he could lean against it and returned his attention to the phone. If it wasn’t important, he would just check the email and answer it once he got home, but it never hurt to take a quick look-see.

            He caught a glimpse of the email subject when he tapped the message preview with his thumb. _Sorry for not keeping in touch…_ Bentley twisted his mouth to one side and waited for the message to load.

            “Message loaded. Initiating read-thro—”

            “Stop!” Bentley said, straightening up and gripping his phone tighter. “Stop stop stop _stars above_ De-initiate read-through.”

            The phone’s voice paused, then spoke again. “De-initiating read-through mode. Entering silent mode.”

            Bentley let out a breath and dropped his forehead over the phone’s surface for a moment. He had forgotten that he’d left it on Read-Through, as was his habit at work; it kept his hands and eyes free to work on things like experimental and highly unstable rune combinations. Dr. Nana Chulanont had already had to replace her phone three times and have surgery once because she didn’t remember to put emails on Read-Through.

            He raised his head and shifted his forearms on the handle of the shopping cart, then refocused his attention on the email. The scroll bar was, thankfully, not very long at all.

_“Dear Bentley,  
I don’t believe you remember me, as you were too young the one time we met face to face. I sent you an email a year ago regarding the untimely passing of your father, offering my condolences. Due to complications, my husband and I were unable to make the xonge, but it was a choice that was very difficult to make. A child should not have to bury one of their parents, let alone two; my only solace is that you were far too young to remember my sister’s passing.”_

            Bentley startled a little in remembrance, and then frowned. The message had been short, though he hadn’t cared at the time because he had read a large number of them. His father’s death had invited a lot of words, but not a lot of people.

“ _It happens that starting tomorrow I will be in Norfolk, where I believe you were finishing up your last year of school? If you are not in this area and have found a job elsewhere, let me know. I would still be up for a virtual meeting, but the chance to connect with my only living relative gives me great joy._  
Your Aunt,  
Meung-soo Ellig.”

            Bentley read the message again, and then again. He twisted his mouth and narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know his Aunt; his father had told him about Meung-soo and her husband, but not why they hadn’t kept in contact. The fact that they hadn’t come to his father’s funeral also rubbed him the wrong way. But she was also family—as far as he knew, his only living family. Other than Dipper and Torako.

            Bentley let out a somewhat shaky breath, then closed the email app and downsized his phone. He couldn’t think about his Dad, not here. He slipped the compacted phone into his pocket and then continued on down the aisle, snagging a box of quartered butter as he passed them. They needed another couple jumbo size candy bags, because Dipper was due home any day now and demon brother or not, he still had the biggest sweet tooth Bentley had ever seen.

-

            Torako was just setting the salmon—rubbed with olive oil, sprinkled with seasoning and covered with tomatoes and mushrooms and mozzarella cheese—into the oven when the front door of the apartment slid open. “Hey Ben!” she called. “I’m getting dinner started!”

            “You are a lovely person,” Ben called back. She heard the door slide shut and she stuck her hands in the Qwikclean station in the countertop by the stove. The mess was sucked right off her hands, but she still waved them in the air when she pulled them out.

            “You need any help getting those groceries in?” Torako asked, already moving around the island in the middle of the kitchen. It was a nice apartment; both Bentley’s old one and the apartment they’d shared in undergrad were fairly basic, but Torako had insisted on something in a nicer neighborhood and with more space when the lease on Ben’s old one had expired.

            “Nah, they’re in the Extendable Basket, it’s fine.” Bentley swung it up to show her.

            Torako smirked. “Told you that was a good buy.”

            He rolled his eyes, but set the basket on the counter. “Don’t lord it over me, jerk.”

            “That’s impossible,” Torako said, leaning on the counter and ruffling his hair. “You’re so tiny that everything is over you.”

            “That was really reaching,” Bentley said. He opened the basket and started pulling things out, leaning on the counter and pushing himself onto his tiptoes so that he could see better. Torako was still ruffling his hair.

            “What, like you right now?”

            Bentley’s stare was almost as flat as the time last week that she’d cracked a Twin Souls pun at him. He sighed, then batted her hand away. “Worse,” he said. “Now help me put the groceries away, you nerd.”

            Torako grinned and let the line of conversation drop. She pulled out a couple cartons of tofu and a handful of vegetable bags before toeing open the refrigerator and tossing them in. They would remain in stasis until pulled out again. Torako loved stasis tech. She’d lived with bare-bones tech for a year and to be honest, the rate at which food went bad was a big reason she stopped the lonely Demon Hunter lifestyle and entered grad school.

          Speaking of food… “Hey, Ben, I have a question. You up for some treat-making this fine Thursday evening?”

            “Yeah, I’ve got some energy, why?” Ben spoke into the basket, his arm in the pocketspace up to his elbow as he rooted around for the last of the groceries. Torako eyed his pile and, although she hadn’t expected him to get it, felt a flash of sadness at the lack of Moffios.

            “Officer Nathan’s wife got hit the other day,” Torako said. She reached over for the cheese and then slid it into the cheese bin in the door. “It was holly.”

            Bentley looked up at her, both arms in the pocketspace of the basket. “ _Holly_? What the fuck?”

            “I know, right? She’s an elementary school teacher, for Fishery’s sake.” Torako shut the door and leaned against the fridge, thankful for a model that didn’t respond whenever absolutely anything touched its input surfaces. “Who even does that?”

            “I don’t even know,” Bentley said. With both hands, he pulled out a large honeydew and set it on the counter, then submerged himself up to the elbows again. “In that case, I have more than enough energy. What were you thinking of making?”

            “Brownies, maybe? Or some mochi, if we have the stuff for it.”

            Bentley pulled out a cantaloupe and rolled both of the melons over to Torako. She intercepted them and put them in the fridge. “Nope, I forgot to get more mochiko flour, so brownies it is. How long until dinner’s done?”

            “I just put the salmon in the oven, so it’ll be another twenty minutes,” Torako said. She snagged both loaves of bread and slung them in the bread-keeper next to the fridge.

            “We can get everything mixed together now, if you wanted,” Bentley said. He pulled eggs out of the basket, and then three giant mixed bags of candy. “This isn’t something that requires a Mizar and Shadow deal, right?”

            Torako shook her head and reached up into a cabinet to pull out the oil. “I don’t think so, not unless we get more incidents. I hope this is just a one-off thing.”

            “They wouldn’t have targeted her because of her job, right?” Bentley asked. He put away the basket, stretching up onto his tiptoes to fit it on top of the fridge. He was biting his lip. Torako pressed her lips together in an attempt to smother a grin, then dug around in the measuring drawer for a cup.

            “She’s an elementary school teacher,” Torako said again. She pulled out the right cup and uncollapsed it, then found a couple of measuring spoons and another, smaller cup for good measure. “Not somebody people usually target.”

            “It wouldn’t be a wave of Specists, would it?”

            Torako shook her head from where she was crouched, pulling out the cocoa powder and sugar. When she stood, her knee cracked, and she grimaced. “Nothing’s been noticed, no comments or tension. There’s some in the Eurasian-African peninsula, but as far as I know, nothing’s transferred. Not really my area of expertise, but I guess I can ask around. Butter?”

            “Just bought some.” Bentley tossed a stick of  butter to her, and she snatched it out of the air before dropping it on the counter. “What about her magic?”

            “I don’t think it’s powerful enough.” Torako blinked at the butter. “Hey, you got the quartered kind!”

            “Blocks of butter are affronts to nature,” Bentley said. “Of course I got quartered. So do you think it was just a mugging? Holly seems really specific.”

            Torako sighed. “It might be a hate crime. It might also be like a personal grudge—maybe the person had a bad run-in with Asanbosam before? Maybe the iron nails just triggered them for some reason? It’s happened before. I just don’t have enough info to know, and I don’t think it’s priority.”

            Bentley nodded and climbed on the island to pull a saucepan from one of the hoverfield hooks.  “That’s fair, I guess. Officer Akuapem doesn’t seem like the kind of person to push for that unless other people got involved.”

            “Yeah,” Torako said. She nabbed the flour out of the fridge, and switched it to her other hand when Bentley extended the saucepan to her. “There’s. Also bigger problems. I’m not supposed to really talk about it, because it could end up being above my paygrade.”

            “Demons?”

            Torako set the flour on the counter and the pan on the stove. She ran her hand through her bangs and thought about how long her hair was getting—it was nearly to her shoulders. “Demons.”

            “Mizar and Shadow?” Bentley offered again. Torako turned the stove on to high and pulled a knife out to cut a bit of butter off. She looked over her shoulder at him, eyebrow raised.

            “Two times in one conversation? What’s bringing this on?” She didn’t say no. Not until she was sure that they wouldn’t be needed.

            Bentley hummed and hopped off the counter. He nudged one of the stoolspots by the stove, and then climbed up onto the footstool that slid out of the baseboards. “It’s…maybe not complicated, but kind of.”

            “Demons?” Torako asked. She set the butter in the heating pan and watched it melt.

            “No,” Bentley said. “Family.”

            Torako looked at him so fast the pan jostled in her grip, sending butter sliding along its bottom. “Family? You? I thought your family was all dead, except for that one aunt and uncle you’ve never even met?”

            “That’s them,” Bentley said. He pulled a mixing bowl out of the cupboard and snapped it open with the flick of a wrist before passing it down to Torako. She switched hands to take it from him.

            “Didn’t they not even show up for the funeral?”

            “Exactly.” Bentley pulled out a silicone baking dish and pushed it open by the corners. It was old and didn’t respond well to snapping.

            Torako was quiet for a moment. She set the bowl down by the cocoa and flour and sugar, and pulled a spatula out from above the stove so that she could move the melted butter around. The smell, salty-sweet, wafted up to her nose as she chewed around the words in her mouth, turned them over and tasted them for the right ones.

            She reached for the butter and chopped up another couple chunks before dropping them off and listening to the soft sound of them pulling apart from themselves, of them relaxing into a form less rigid. Bentley stepped off the stool next to her and nudged it back into place with his foot. As he passed, he let one hand trail across the span of her back, and suddenly she knew what words to say.

            Or rather, what to ask. “What did they say?”

            Bentley inhaled through his nose as he opened the flour. He dipped the measuring cup into the bag and, using his hand and the side of the bag, leveled it as he pulled it out. He tipped it over the rim of the bowl, and it fell in, crumbling at the bottom and cracking at the top but mostly keeping its form.

            Torako waited.

            “It was Meung-soo,” he said at last. “She apologized for not being at Dad’s funeral.”

            His tone was flat, his hands were steady and his arms were too stiff as he went to measure out another scoop of flour. Torako pulled the bag of cocoa to her and measured out the right amount of cocoa powder. As she stirred it into the pan of melted butter, she glanced at Bentley. He was worrying his bottom lip, and when he didn’t speak, she brushed her arm against his. He glanced back at her, and then away, orange bangs falling in his eyes.

            “She wanted to know if I was still in Norfolk,” Bentley said. “She’s going to be here. Tomorrow. Was wondering if I wanted to meet.”

            Torako looked back at the pan and stirred the cocoa into the butter some more. Two years ago—no, before her Demon Hunter year—she would have told Bentley to say ‘screw you’ to his aunt. If Meung-soo hadn’t put Bentley first, she would have reasoned, why bother? And a part of Torako still thought this, still wanted to say this, because any person who refused to comfort family, who refused to see off family, was wrong in ways Torako couldn’t comprehend.

            Instead, she asked, “What do you think of this?”

            Bentley measured the sugar into the mixing bowl, and then reached over to snag the salt off the seasoning shelf on the wall behind the stove. Torako leaned out of his way, and then back into the space when he retreated.

            “I don’t know,” Bentley said finally. “I guess I want to—she’s my only family, you know? And she’s mom’s sister. But they also didn’t come out, and that’s. That. Yeah.”

            Bentley rubbed at his eyes, and Torako rubbed his back with one hand. “I know,” she said. Her throat closed up, and she had to shut her eyes and take a deep breath. Philip still hurt to think of, even indirectly. “I know.”

            She felt his back shudder as he let out an equally tenuous exhale. He pressed back against her for a moment, and then asked, “Can you pass me a mixing spoon?”

            “Of course.” Torako pulled it from the utensil crock and flipped it in her hand so that it extended to Bentley handle-first.

            He took it, and stirred the dry ingredients together even as Torako finished stirring her butter-cocoa mixture. She kept at it, though; she needed his part before they could finish mixing the batter together. Torako watched the spatula push the liquid chocolate around, the rippling brown of it thick and silky under the kitchen light. She pulled the spatula around the edges so that nothing stuck to the bottom of the pan, and then continued to stir.

            “What would you do?” Bentley asked, at last.

            Torako pursed her lips, watched the chocolate undulate in the pan under the pressure of the spatula. “I don’t know what I would do,” she admitted. “I’ve never been in that situation. My dads and I might be a little on the estranged side, but we still love each other. I still talk to Momma Mai every once in a while. We’re not…not like your family. All not speaking or gone. Everybody went to Gram’s funeral, even Dad and the rest of us, even though they didn’t get along too great.

           Next to her, Bentley was quiet, but it was a kind of listening-quiet, not thinking-quiet, so Torako kept talking.

            “But if you’re asking what I think…” Torako pushed at the chocolate, then looked at Bentley to see him looking at her. “I think that it wouldn’t hurt to meet with her once. Just once. In a public setting, with me or without me. Just so you can get a feel for each other in person.”

            Bentley nodded, swallowed, and then turned his attention back to the mixing bowl. He pulled the mixing spoon through it a couple times, then stopped. “What if she doesn’t…I mean, what if she hated Dad? And that’s why she didn’t come?”

            “Then she’s not worth it,” Torako said. “But you have to see if she is, first. If she is, I think it would be nice for you to have family other than Dipper.”

            “And you,” Bentley said. The admission, though nothing new, sent warmth pouring through Torako and pulled her lips into what was probably a goofy smile. “Don’t discount yourself.”

            “Of course not,” Torako said. Her smile widened into a grin. “But we both know that nobody’s more family than me, so I had to throw Dipper out there for Meung-soo to have some competitive chance.”

            “That makes no sense,” Bentley said, but he was smiling a little. “I hear you, though. I’ll email her back—where do you suggest meeting?”

            “Coffeeshops are always good,” Torako said. “Maybe this weekend? Saturday, brunch or lunch. I can snoop around in a couple shops nearby if it’s Tarannala’s Treasury?”

            Bentley bumped his hip against hers and then set the mixing spoon on the countertop. “Tarannala’s Treasury it is.”

            Torako nodded. “Okay, good! Now, we’ve got three minutes until the salmon’s done, so let’s get this brownie mix mixed up! Pour pour pour pour!”

            Bentley hefted the mixing bowl in both hands and tipped the contents, slowly, into the saucepan as Torako stirred, stirred, stirred. The hair on the back of Torako’s neck stood up right as she felt the wards in the apartment flicker and then stabilized, and she only just managed to keep the saucepan upright in the face of the joy that pulled her around to look behind her. Bentley wasn’t much better.

            There, sitting on the counter, was Dipper, smirking his little demon smirk that meant it’d been too long since Torako had argued him down a peg. “Miss me?” he asked, stretching a leg into the air. He was materializing his thigh-high boots today, Torako noticed. And his lacy overcoat. She grinned.

            “We didn’t call you, did we?” Bentley said, tone dry but face soft. “Of course not.”

            Dipper held his hands over where a human heart would be and fell back on the counter. “You monster!”

            “Says the demon,” Torako said. She turned back to the batter. “Bentley, watch out, you’re getting close to the edge.”

            Bentley swore and jostled the mixing bowl. Some of the contents fell onto the stove and burned. Torako snapped her fingers and pointed behind her at the island.

            “One—and only one!—taro roll candy in exchange for you removing what Bentley just now spilled onto the stove.”

            “A deal already?” Dipper purred, and he was right up behind her, his elbows on her shoulders. She twitched, then relaxed. “Oh, I do like to hear that. _Deal_.”

            The mistake vanished, and Bentley emptied the rest of the dry ingredients into the saucepan. Torako stirred, watched the white disappear into chocolaty goodness, and tilted her head back just far enough that her cheek brushed against Dipper’s.

            Everything was good in the world again, Torako thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more i write, the more things start to snap together I'm so excited I should not have been writing this. I should. Not have been writing this.


	3. Brownies for Hepsa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bentley meets with his Aunt Meung-soo, Torako has a chat with Officer Akuapem while visiting his wife, and Dipper babysits Lata.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Sorry for the radio silence, things have been hectic or I just haven't felt like writing. This semester is looking to be just as bad--I've filled my plate again XD

Saying yes to Meung-soo had been easier than Bentley thought it would be. Her reply to his suggestion, though still a little distant, felt more relaxed, more human, than the last message. She had also agreed to lunch at Tarannala’s Treasury, though it seemed that Mikael wouldn’t be coming with her; apparently, he had work at home and couldn’t make the trip over from Switzerland. Bentley found himself looking forward to the meeting, oddly enough. He was interested enough that on Saturday he found himself at an outside table at Trannala’s early, fingers curled around a tall glass of complimentary, cherry-infused water, waiting for his Aunt to arrive.

            On the table, his phone vibrated. He took a sip of water, then murmured, “Open, show message.”

            The phone expanded with a quiet _sshhf_ , the screen blinking to life before his messages were selected by the phone’s program. He was glad to have remembered to set the phone to silent before coming out; the family at the table next to him seemed very straight-laced, the kind that stared loud strangers into submission. Bentley shifted in his chair so that his back was more to them, and read the message.

_Oh my god ben they have the new stars of wood and gold, they have the new swg I’m going to die I’m so happy._

Bentley snorted, his shoulders lifting with humor. He reached for the phone and typed back a quick reply telling Torako that she could buy it if she wanted, but don’t expect him to read any kind of Twin Souls related drudgery, and he didn’t care how good the prose was.

            Moments later, his phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down at it.

_Hey now, even TYRONE is excited about it. Tyrone._

_Don’t care_ , he typed back. _And you’re bluffing, he might not hate Stars of Wood and Gold, but he doesn’t actually like it._

He set the phone down and took a sip of his water again. Half of the reason to go to Tarannala’s, he thought, was this right here. Thanks be for complimentary cherry water. The phone buzzed, twice, and he went to read the message—in all-caps, so Dipper was borrowing Torako’s device—when he heard his name.

            “Bentley?”

            Bentley looked up into the face of a woman he didn’t know. She was clutching the strap of a small purse in her hand, thin bracelets glinting off her wrist. The spots of light let through the revolving canopy above the table tracked slow and smooth across the curves of her wide face and the faux-cotton texture of her light jacket. She had crow’s feet around her eyes, but he thought that he could see his mother’s nose—seen only in photos and in the bridge of his own—in the way hers lay on her face.

            “Aunt Meung-soo?” he asked, standing up on reflex.

            She smiled, and it curved her cheeks up to crease her eyes from the bottom. “Flesh and bone,” she said. She pulled out a chair, which was old-fashioned and four-legged. Single-limb chairs were way more stable, but it was part of Tarannala’s antiquated charm. “I thought it might be you; you look a lot like your father, though you’re built more like my Soo-jan.”

            Bentley smiled back, ignoring the sudden pang of pain in his heart, and sat down himself His chair dipped far enough down on its levitators that it touched the ground before stabilizing again. “Soo-jan is my Mom, right? Susan?”

            Meung-soo nodded, sliding her hand against the edge of the table to bring up the menu and alert the waitstaff to a new customer. It flickered into existence in front of her, and she met his eyes over the top of it. “Yes. She went by both, but Philip called her Susan more often than not so I’m unsurprised that he would refer to her that way. Did you talk about her much, if you don’t mind me asking?”

            His hand found his phone, and he traced his thumb up and down the side closest. He could try. “Not…not much. Just that she was out on a Dip and the excavation site turned dangerous quicker than expected. That Dad liked her laugh and that she sang me to sleep every night. Little things.”

            Bentley fell quiet. Dad had always gotten the softest, strangest expression on his face when he talked about Mom, Bentley remembered. He remembered fuzzy pajamas and his hands on the photo album’s screen, Dad’s warmth against his back and his arm wrapped around Bentley’s torso, like he was afraid to let Bentley go, and—

            He  looked down at the phone, at Dipper’s message. _IT DOESN’T HAVE US ALL FUCKING THIS TIME_ , it read. Of course Dipper knew that already, without having even read a single word. He found himself taking a deep breath and anchoring himself to the words. _HALLEFUCKINGLULIJAH IF TORA MAKES ME SUFFER THROUGH IT I MIGHT NOT DESPISE EVERY SECOND._

            He wasn’t quite sure what ‘hallefuckinglulijah’ meant, but Dipper had said it enough times for Bentley to think it was some kind of curse, or maybe a prayer. It could have been anything, with Dipper.

            Meung-soo laughed, and the self-depreciating edge to it made Bentley look up at her, startled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I told myself I wouldn’t bring up sore subjects right away, and here I am. This was more about us getting to know each other, not dwelling in the past.”

            “It’s…understandable,” Bentley said. He noticed that he menu in front of her was gone; she must have sent in her request to the shop. His sandwich would come out at the same time as whatever she ordered would.

            They were silent a while longer, the space between them awkward. Bentley stared at his water glass, watched the condensation bead down the outside of it, and listened to the chatter around. The table next to them, with the stern family, were discussing the failure of the local Petty Matter Investigative Squad to hold up their promises to return missing pets to their homes, and dear goodness where would Pretty have gone that was so impossible to find? Their youngest kept making babbling noises, though; when set against the self-righteous indignance, it made Bentley grin to himself.

            “So,” Meung-soo said, and Bentley refocused on her, losing the thread of conversation regarding how little Pretty would never run away. He took a sip of his water. She glanced away and then back at him, eyes dark and warm and a little unsure. “What do you do, Bentley?”

            Work questions. He knew this line of conversation well. “I’m a practical researcher at Niklakka Labs; most of what I do is taking theory—”sometimes from idiots who didn’t know what they were doing, so he had to fix the theory and he _hated_ pure theory—“and putting it into practice until we get the right combination of sigils.”

            Meung-soo’s eyebrows rose. “Sigils? That’s a rather odd choice, even if it is on the rise. What made you want to study that?”

            He tilted his head and lifted a hand to shake it back and forth. On the table, his phone vibrated, but he didn’t pick it up. “I was good at it, and I enjoy it. Also, it’s really handy and it’s not something a lot of people know how to do well. Most can’t even tell sigils apart from other writing-based magics.”

            “Can you show me something easy?” She asked, leaning forward so that her elbows were planted against the table. Light slid across the forearms of her jacket, grass-green against shadow. “I don’t know much about sigils.”

            Bentley felt his eyebrows twitch up a little. Usually, people changed the subject after hearing what Bentley’s job was. “Okay,” he said, and he picked the phone up off the table. _She come?_ Asked Torako. He shot off a quick reply, and then pulled up a DrawNote tab and full-screened it.

            “So this,” he drew an upright triangle with a stylus materialized by the program, “is commonly recognized as the alchemical symbol for fire, but it serves the same purpose as a sigil. And if you draw an activation line through it—” A small burst of flame flickered to life above the screen, not powerful enough to make a dint in Bentley’s energy or damage anything. It disappeared quickly, but when he glanced at Meung-soo, she looked enraptured. “It releases the energy pent up in the symbol.”

            “So I could do that on my phone too?” She reached for her purse, eyes still on his hands.

            “Definitely not,” Bentley said. “Mine is warded and prepped for sigil work because of my job; because my school had them on all the issued tablets, but it is an extra fee and has to be specially requested.”

            “Oh,” she said. “How much extra?”

            “It depends on the power levels. The school issued tablets weren’t too expensive, from what I remember, but,” Bentley trailed off. He popped off the case of his phone and leaned across the table to show Meung-soo the sigils chained along its edge, tiny and delicate. “Mine has protections as strong as we know how to make. Something like the fire sigil I just showed you would be much less intricate, and much less expensive.”

            Meung-soo traced a line of sigils, all carefully activated with a single, complicated line. She hummed, eyes narrowed in concentration. “This must have cost a lot, then.”

            Bentley shrugged and looked away. The edges of his mouth twitched up. “Not really. Just my effort.”

            She raised her head, and he looked back at her. “You did this?”

            He nodded.

            “But they’re so tiny!” Meung-soo bent closer to the phone, like she could absorb all the secrets of the craft if she could just get her eyes near enough. “I thought this was machine crafted!”

            “No, sigils need more of a sentient touch,” Bentley said.

            “Ah!” Meung-soo snapped her fingers twice and pulled far enough away from the phone to catch his eye again. “But wait, if sigils are anything like wards, then they need sentient energy to work right?”

            “Yes,” Bentley said. His eyebrows were raised. “Not many people know that wards need SE, much less think to make that connection.”

            Meung-soo tilted her head and went back in to study the sigil chain. “I’m a Magitechnician who works in Practical Applications; I have to know my wards.”

             Bentley passed her his phone and leaned back. He took a sip of his cherry water. “Aren’t there people working to integrate sigils more into that kind of thing?”

            “In some places—North Africa has been at the forefront of that push, but it’s pretty fledgling. I think what puts companies off is how personal everything about sigils is.” She very carefully drew the back of one manicured nail against the string of sigils; Bentley wondered where she went to get that kind of nail job, and how much it would cost to get one himself. “Taking what you said about sigils needing to be drawn instead of machine-made, that makes sense. I hadn’t considered that.”

            Bentley nodded. He curled his fingers around the glass and watched Meung-soo. Her eyes gleamed, even in the spotted light, and she was hunched over like he did whenever he was particularly engrossed in something. Meung-soo was smiling, her expression unreserved the way it hadn’t been when she’d first walked up.

            Maybe, Bentley thought, something really would come of this.

-

            The next day, Torako knocked on Officer Nathan’s apartment door, her briefcase in one hand and Bentley under her arm. Dipper was crowded in front of them, and held the tray of brownies in two hands.

            “I could have blipped us here,” he groused, human skin on and already sweaty. They had walked over, the day unusually warm for early April.

            “And what about Torako’s job makes that a good idea?” Bentley murmured from by Dipper’s shoulder.

            “It wouldn’t be that noticeable,” Dipper said.

            “Says the little shit who _wasn’t_ up five nights in a row not only proofing the entire apartment, but sewing careful and _very difficult_ sigils into everybody’s clothing. Sewing. Not drawing, _sewing_.” It had been several months since Torako nearly tripped the station’s detectors, and Bentley still wasn’t over it.

            “Shush,” Torako whispered. “We are here to be a very normal family who does very normal things in their time off like baking brownies and visiting people who have recently been attacked.”

            “Somehow I don’t think that last part is exactly normal, Tora.”

            Dipper snickered. Torako kicked him in the ankle, and he hissed a little. She was saved from immediate retribution by the door opening, and Officer Nathan’s voice saying, “Please come in.”

            “Thank you very much for having us!” Torako said, herding Bentley and Dipper into the apartment. “We brought brownies, just in case that would cheer Holly up.”

            “She can’t have solids yet, but I’ll place them in stasis so that she can enjoy them when she recovers.” Officer Nathan looked—it was hard to tell with him, but he looked tired. Torako didn’t pause or let on that she’d noticed, but she did. “Thank you all for coming.”

            “Can’t have solids?” Bentley asked. She pulled off her shoes, and when she kneeled to put them down she absentmindedly tugged at Bentley’s laces. He braced himself on her back and toed out of them so that Torako could set his next to hers.

            “They got her in the throat,” Officer Nathan said. “Used some kind of substance that makes healing harder. Holly was bad enough, but this made it worse.”

            Torako tugged at Dipper’s shoes, and he ruffled her hair in thanks before taking them off.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dipper said. She could tell by the tone that he was biting something back, and Torako wondered at how far he’d come since she’d met him years ago, bloody and demonic and hovering over Bentley protectively in the wake of a situation that still gave her nightmares.

            She set Dipper’s loafers on the other side of Bentley’s shoes, and then stood to see Dipper pass Officer Nathan the brownies. “Is she resting right now?”

            Officer Nathan’s lips pulled back in a smile. She could see the glinting of his iron teeth in the crack. “No. She’s lively today, and has the Mindword app on her tablet. If you want, she’s in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”

            “We’ll go say hi, then,” Torako said. She pushed the briefcase, which she’d set on the floor, closer to the line of shoes and set a hand each on Dipper’s and Bentley’s backs. “Again, thank you for having us.”

            Officer Nathan nodded. “I’ll let you say hi to her,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

            Dipper was warm under her hand, his outdated formal shirt a little stiff against her palm. Under her right hand was Bentley in one of his favorite, but also nicer jackets. If she moved her hand, Torako knew that she’d feel the embroidery shift under her hand, pushed into action by the pressure of her fingers. Other people might not know looking at it, but Bentley had embroidered it, and it was full of sigils—Torako couldn’t even name all of them.

            Up along the back of her neck, she could feel the residual tingle of anti-demon wards.

            “Tyrone,” Bentley said, “you don’t have to hold your arms like that anymore.”

            Dipper snorted and very quickly folded his arms like he was hiding his hands. “Like what?”

            “Like an idiot.”

            Dipper stiffened under her hand. “Excuse you, I was solving complex calculus when I was _twelve_. What were you doing when you were twelve? Not that!”

            “Keep telling yourself that.”

            “Play nice, children,” Torako said. She looked to one side of the hall, where Officer Nathan had a series of moving and stationary images. One was of him and his wife, Hepsa; they were smiling, dressed in thin, traditional clothing that let the sunlight in through the fabric. They held a ball of rose-thorn vines in their hands between the two of them, and no blood was to be seen. He had explained the significance of it once to Torako, but she had forgotten what he’d said.

            In the picture, Hepsa was round-faced and smiling, just a few centimeters shorter than her husband. When they got to the open bedroom door, she was barely recognizable under the red-orange bruises and the white bandage wrapped around her throat.

            Bentley sucked in a breath and paused in the doorway. Dipper kept going forward, and Torako, with a spine tempered by a year of cult-hunting and all the pain that came with it, pressed against Bentley’s back and smiled. “Hey Mrs. Akuapem! We gave them to your husband to put in stasis, but we brought you some brownies for when you feel better!”

            Hepsa smiled with one side of her mouth. The left half remained where it was. Paralysis from the holly weapon, Torako thought. Maybe complicated by the poison. She swallowed; the paralytic should have worn off by now.

            Bentley found his feet again, and stepped forward. “I—I’m so sorry that this happened, I can’t believe that somebody would do this.”

            The woman on the bed huffed and patted the bed with her hands—first palm down, then palm up. The left hand was slower to move than the right, but at least it moved.

            Dipper sighed, dragged a stool over, and sat on it, knees apart and an inch from the bed. Torako couldn’t see his face from her position by the door, but she imagined that he was looking Hepsa up and down, taking in her aura. “Long recovery, huh?”

            Hepsa made a sort of gravelly gurgling in the back of her throat and reached out to the bedside table for her tablet. There was a glowing IV device in her arm, undoubtedly connected to the floating bag of solution in the corner. It wouldn’t be a saline drip, but Torako didn’t know what Asanbosam were prescribed.

             They waited for Hepsa to blink her eyes at the device, and she turned it around in one hand. The motions were more labored than Torako liked.

            _The worst part is that I’m missing a month of school,_ the tablet read. _The children are just learning the incantation for firefly lights. I had looked forward to it._

            Torako grinned. “Firefly lights? I remember learning that! I was shit at it, but it was a lot of fun. Bentley, were you any better?”

            He looked over his shoulder at her, a little confused. “Torako, you know I was homeschooled. And,” his eyes got a little misty, “you know that Dad—”

            Dipper reached over and tugged Bentley onto his lap. “YEAH I was homeschooled too, and the curriculum just wasn’t the same! In fact, we didn’t touch any incantations until I was like a teenager, it was the worst. I’ve never learned it!”

            Hepsa’s eyes, faded green, widened. She blinked, and on the tablet: _You’ve never learned? Neither of you?_

            “Neither of them,” Torako confirmed. It occurred to her that it was taking Officer Nathan a long time to put the brownies in stasis.

              _What a shame._ Hepsa frowned, again with one side of her face, and tapped one stubby finger against the side of the tablet.

            Bentley looked back at her, his arm slung over Dipper’s shoulder for balance. Torako flicked her eyes towards Hepsa, and then nodded at him. He frowned at her, obviously not getting what she was trying to tell him. He seemed more dense than usual—too many late nights?—so Torako huffed and set her hands on her hips.

           “I’m sure that if you’re up to it, they’d love a quick lesson,” Torako put forward for both Dipper and Bentley. Bentley’s face lit up with understanding, and he turned back to Hepsa.

            “Absolutely! But only if you have the energy.”

            Hepsa already looked a little more solid, despite the fiery bruises showing even through her thick skin. She smiled, lifted her left hand very, very slowly to rub at the skin behind her long ears. _I would like that, yes_.

            Dipper opened his mouth. “But I can’t do—”

            Bentley hit Dipper’s shoulder too forcefully for Torako to fairly judge it a pat. “It’s okay Tyrone, I know that you’re self conscious about your inability to do much magic—his aptitude for it is really low—but this is a spell that _Torako_ was able to do when she was six. Six. And you’re how old?”

            Unsaid was _are you saying that you, an immortal demon, are weaker than a six year old child with an aptitude that runs in the opposite direction of magic?_ Torako snorted.

            Sure enough, Dipper bristled. “Twenty-seven,” he hissed out through clenched teeth. “And fine. Maybe something has changed in all these years.”

            Hepsa, for a bed-ridden Asanbosam with a half-frozen face, could beam really well for having sharp, iron teeth. The first steps to the firefly spell were listed on the tablet within seconds, and Torako had to laugh out loud.

            “I’ll leave you all to it,” Torako said, waving one hand and heading down the hall. She passed the wall of pictures and wondered if, once they got their own home, Bentley and Dipper would be up for something like that. A wall of them, over the years. She stopped, looked at a picture of Hepsa and Nathan dancing, decades younger and smiling, and wanted to be able to do that herself, decades in the future.

            She shook off the thought as she peered into the kitchen. Officer Nathan was standing there, staring at the stasis container. He was hunched over, shoulders drawn in a way that unnerved Torako with their vulnerability. She knocked on the wall, and said, “Everything okay?”

            Officer Nathan startled, his feet scraping against the floor as he turned. “Oh, Ms. Lam. Torako. Has it been long?”

            “Not too,” she said. She stepped into the kitchen, her socks sliding a little with the lack of traction. “What’s up?”

            He inhaled and leaned back against the countertop. He narrowed his eyes at her like he was watching her for the first time. It was, Torako realized in a flash of memory, like that cult member informant from forever ago: on the edge of trusting Torako but not sure if the leap forward was worth it. “It is…just a lot. Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”

            “Of course it’s a lot, it’s about Hepsa.” She propped herself against the opposite counter, near an impressive collection of mugs, and slid her hands into her pockets. She relaxed her body, softened the tilt of her head. “It’s okay to have it feel like a lot.”

            Officer Nathan snorted. “Hepsa is a big part of it. If I didn’t have a nurse to stay in when I am not home...”

            Torako didn’t respond immediately. She watched how his hands gripped the counter, fingernails curling into (probably literally) the bottom edge of it. His knuckles were a thin, watered-down yellow with the pressure of his grip. She breathed in and out a few times, and then breached the silence.

            “You’re worried,” she said. “About Hepsa. And about the case?”

            He waited a few moments before responding. “And about the case.”

            “Still nobody reported at the hospital?” Torako was worried, so the hint of it in her voice was genuine, and the frown on her face was real.

            “No. And I’m in contact with them a lot.” He pulled one of his hands off the counter—sure enough, there was a dusting of something on the tips of his fingernails—and dragged it down his face.

            Torako watched the way he inhaled. She was not used to this Officer Nathan. This Officer Nathan was less Officer Nathan, and more Nathan Akuapem who happened to be an officer. Maybe…

            “Have things been happening around here, too?” Torako asked. She had a sudden thought: “Has somebody tried to break in?”

“No, no, nobody’s done that,” Nathan said. He looked her over again. She let him, doing her best to not stiffen under his gaze. Sometimes, when he looked that hard, she was reminded that his species had a history of devouring human beings—but that’s all it was. History. It was in the past, and she was going to keep it there.

She had good practice with that, too, considering the fact she lived with an actual demon. He breaks her arm, and what does Torako do? After a few break-downs and panic-attacks, she pulls herself together and demands snuggles, more sparring and returns to trusting him with her mind and body. She definitely wasn’t looking to do het chicken with Officer Nathan, but she was used to trusting a person over an instinct.

Finally, Nathan exhaled and set his hand back on the countertop. His knuckles were no longer pressed up against the skin. “You’re a good intern, Torako.”

“Why thank you,” she said.

“I do mean it,” he said. He shifted, started dragging his thumb across the bottom corner of the counter. He wasn’t looking at her. “You’re a good worker, even though you can push at the rules and cause a bit of trouble. And you’re a good person.”

Torako shifted, a little uncomfortable. “I…thank you. I know I can rub people the wrong way with my attitude, so I try, and it’s good to know that I’m succeeding with you at least, but…why are you telling me this now?

Nathan smiled a thin, worn smile at her. “Because…well, you’re right. About things going on here.”

Torako raised her eyebrows. “Nasty things?”

“Not really. Little things. They build up.”

She pulled her hands out of her pockets and set her elbows on the counter, slouching down a little to reach. Torako didn’t look away from Officer Nathan. “If you don’t mind me asking, what little things?”

Officer Nathan shook his head. “Nothing worrying, mostly personal. A few neighbors have been pestering me about their missing pets and insisting that I do something, and last night somebody broke into Milla’s store to steal a new fridge. They have been…vocal about the ineptitude of the police, to say the least.”

            “The pets in last few days, I’m guessing?”

            He nodded. “The pets could have run away, but the neighbors refuse to entertain that notion, and refuse to register their complaints with the right office no matter how often I suggest that. It is tiring.”

            Torako grimaced. “I can’t really do anything about the neighbors or the store, but…would it help if we interns did some leg work for the case, at least? I mean, like, calling apartment owners up or meeting with them with quiet requests to check up on their residents, just in case.”

            “It might,” Nathan said. He tipped his head back, the light from overhead easing the harsh shadows on his face. “I had been entertaining the idea myself.”

            “I can send out an email tonight, to give everybody a heads-up.” Torako drummed her fingers over the countertop. “Oh! And I know you don’t like work stuff at home, so I’m really sorry to bring it up after this whole conversation, but I thought it might be good to hand you a copy of the research I’ve done—you mentioned having a personal office here?”

            “As long as we don’t have to go through it,” Officer Nathan said, “I will be fine. Are the files out in the entryway?”

            “Yes.” Torako pushed off the counter. Down the hall, she could hear Bentley laughing. “I’ll go get them for you.”

            “Thank you, Torako.” Officer Nathan was smiling a little. She flashed one back and turned to leave the kitchen to grab her work case.

            “Torako?”

            She turned back, a hum in the back of her throat.

            Officer Nathan’s eyes were soft at the edges. “Truly. Thank you.”

            “Of course,” she said back, fingers curled around the doorway of the kitchen. “It’s not a problem.”

_

            “Of course it’s not a problem!” Dipper insisted, Monday night in Southwest Canada, in what used to be Bellevue, Washington. “I love watching them!”

            “Ah, Lata feels more them now? Good to know, thank you,” said Kanti Pines. She fingered the strap of her purse. “But are you sure you don’t mind watching her tonight? Alone?”

            Dipper cracked a human grin at her. It always put Kanti and Reyansh at ease when he wore his human skin, even if it itched a little. Henry was worth it. “You can’t help a babysitter bailing, and Bentley and Torako both work tomorrow. I can handle it, I have all the time in the world on my hands!”

            “If you’re sure,” Kanti said again. She pushed her hair behind her ear. If Dipper focused hard enough, he could see Reina in the cant of her nose. It was nice, to see the physical echoes of family in Mabel’s descendants. “Reynash, dearest, we need to go! The party starts in thirty minutes, and you know how traffic gets!”

            “No! Papa can’t leave, he’s playing with me!”

            Dipper grinned up the stairs. “What, you don’t want to play with Uncle Dipper?”

            There was a pause, and then little feet thudded against the carpet upstairs, Reynash laughing behind them. Lata soon was at the top of the stairs, then was toddling their way down in large, unsteady steps.

            “Lata, dearest, be careful,” Kanti said. She held out a hand. “Take your time, Uncle Dipper will still be here when you get down.”

            The tiny leaves on Lata’s small antlers bounced with every step, even when they slowed down so that their mother was less likely to die of a heart attack.

            _More likely Alzheimer’s_ , Dipper thought, way back in the part of his mind that wouldn’t shut up. _Maybe Lividon’s Cancer. 103 years left on that fleshsuit, tops_.

            Dipper smiled hard in the hopes that he’d stop thinking about that. “Lata! My most favorite nibling!”

            “Uncle Dipper!” Lata smiled at him from where they stopped on the fifth step, open-mouthed and missing their bottom incisor. “Uncle Dipper, Uncle Dipper, are you my babysitter today?”

            “Your parents thought I would be more fun—and they were right—so I blipped on by to spend some time with you!” Dipper held out his arms, and Lata jumped, wrapping their arms almost too tight around his neck. It was a little uncomfortable, but they were _mine, my Henry, here and safe and mine_ so it was okay.

            “Thank heavens you’re here,” Reynash said from the top of the stairs. Dipper looked over Lata’s shoulder to see him set a hand on the banister and begin to descend. His long braid was pulled over his shoulder, the tip of it swaying by his waist with each step. “Kanti was working herself into a panic attack before I suggested you.”

            “I love to see Lata, but is this—oh,” Dipper said. Lata did that thing where they bit his ear really, really hard because they could and he winced. “Oh, this is an R-18 party?”

            “Lata, darling, don’t bite your Uncle.” Reynash reached over and flicked Lata’s forehead, making them giggle. “But yes, it kind of is. A couple beers would be fine, but it’s our annual get-smashed-and-cry party, and we promised that we would be there. If somebody doesn’t have an autowheel option and needs a ride back, we’re the designateds.”

            “But because it’s smash night, it might get a little…wild,” Kanti said. She pulled her purse over her shoulder and fussed with Reynash’s cropped jacket and long skirt. “Not appropriate for a five year old. We took tomorrow off work for a reason.”

            “Of course not,” Dipper said, shifting Lata up further onto his chest. They were warm against him, and it settled awful visions of the Pines’ crashing and burning, or drinking so much they had alcohol poisoning, or—

            “Thank you so much again,” Reynash said. He fiddled with the bottom of his braid and did his best to meet Dipper’s eyes. He was more successful than usual, which told Dipper that he hadn’t forgotten to put the illusion of white sclera and brown irises on for once. Reynash also had fewer bruises in his aura, more soft pinks and pale furples than rich browns and sickly greens.

            They tried, so Dipper did his best to meet them in the middle.

            “Again, I love seeing Lata!” Dipper grinned. “Even if they’re a nibble monster.”

          “Rawr!” Lata said, uncomfortably close to his ear. They wriggled in his grip. “I’m a nibble monster! Fear me!”

            Kanti held her fingers to her lips in a poor attempt to hide her smile. “Well, we should get going. If you can’t handle the nibble monster…”

            “Your number is first drawer next to the fridge because Lata keeps climbing and pulling things off of it, and you figure they can’t get into the drawer but that trick’s only going to work for another week before they succeed at jimmying the lock and dumping everything onto the floor in a fit of frustration.”

            There was an awkward beat of silence. Dipper swallowed and forgot to make his throat bob with the motion. The silence drew on. Rich brown seeped into being in Reynash’s aura, tiny little pinpricks. Whoops.

            “…yes, it’s in the drawer by the fridge now.”

          Lata tugged at his ear, ran their fingers over the rounded shell of it. “Uncle Dipper, why are your ears boring?”

            Dipper didn’t respond, because it was then that Reynash drew Kanti closer, his hand on her waist. “I suppose that we’ll have to remember the drawer for later—Kanti, you ready?”

            “Oh, yes, of course, just one more thing,” she said. She smiled at Dipper with the edges of her lips, and she was trying. “We’ll be back anywhere from midnight to one. Lata should be in bed by ten at the very latest.”

           Dipper saluted. The moment he did, he saw the confusion on their faces reflected in their auras, but kept at it. “Aye aye, captain!”

            Lata, a heartbeat after, copied his motion and giggled. Dipper felt his heart (metaphorically) melt, and his grin pulled wide across his face.

            Reynash snickered a little, pulled a salute back even if he didn’t know what it was, and pulled Kanti out the door. They blew kisses to Lata over their shoulders and Lata kissed back, wriggling against Dipper.

            They stood there a moment in silence, listening to Lata’s parents leave the driveway in their car. Once it was far away, Dipper felt Lata’s pudgy hands on his face, and let them turn his head. He looked into Lata’s eyes, dark brown and nothing like Henry’s. He wondered, in a small part of him, how long Lata would last. Henry hadn’t, not very long. The one before Lata had hours, and that was it.

            Lata pouted. “Uncle Dipper, can you stop being boring now?”

            “Is that what my monarch requests?”

            They nodded once, their tiny antlers gleaming in the entryway light. “Yes. Stop being boring. I request it. I’m done doing bored stuff.”

            Dipper snorted, and then shook his head. The human visage fell off of him, and he felt lighter. “As you command. And your next request?”

            Lata grinned, tugged at his newly pointed ear and played with one of the earring studs in the cartilage. Dipper winced at a particularly enthusiastic tug, but Lata shushed and stroked it, so he didn’t admonish them.

            “Can we…” Lata hummed, and then reached over Dipper’s shoulder to pull the ribbon out of his hair. He let them. “Can we see animals?”

            “Like a zoo? Or an aquarium?”

            Lata shook their head. “No! There was a doc-yuu-pan-try on the screen and there was striped horses and giraffes and cute rat-squirrels…um, I forget their name, but they were cute! And I  was eating naan and asked Mommy where the fences were and she said there weren’t any and I wanna see.”

            “Oh, like a safari? Or a free-roam park?”

            Lata paused. “Yeah!” Lata, Dipper was sure, didn’t know what a safari or a free-roam park was. They had been out of the country twice with their parents, and both times that was to urban India to visit their great-grandparents.

 This, of course, didn’t stop him from thinking about just blipping them over to, like, where the United Congo was. What stopped him from actually going through with the idea was the fact that it was one or two in the morning over there, and he wasn’t sure that was the best time to be taking a five year old into a free-roam park. They couldn’t see anything anyways.

            “Mm, I want to take you, but it’s too late for the striped horses and giraffes and cute rat-squirrels.”

            Lata scowled. “Not fair,” they said.

            “They’re asleep,” Dipper countered.

            “Are there others?” They asked, and ran their fingers through his hair. If he was lucky, they’d get distracted and decide to play salonist. Which Dipper was perfectly fine with, except he kind of wanted to go to a free-roam park now too.

            “Well, yes.”

            “Are the animals asleep there too?”

            Dipper opened his mouth to say yes, thought of something, and then closed it. “Well,” he said. “There aren’t any striped horses, or striped giraffes, or regular giraffes, but there are some cool animals, yes.”

            He really shouldn’t.

            Lata looked away from his hair and stared at him, eyes wide. “Really? What kind of animals?”

            “I really shouldn’t,” Dipper said.

            “What kiiiind?” Lata whined. They grabbed his cheeks and squished them.

            “Well,” he said, again. “There are kangaroos. And emus. And koalas. And stripe-backed manarans.”

            He could have sworn that Lata’s eyes were sparkling. “ _Kangaroos?_ ”

            “Yes, kangaroos!”

            “Can we go?” Lata came even closer, their nose pressed against his. He could hear their pulse in their neck, could practically smell the blood. They were desperate, he thought. Utterly desperate to go to see these animals.

            “Well,” he said. “I can’t take you there without a deal. Australia’s far away.”

            Lata leaned back, eyes set in determination. “Like Uncle Ben and Aunt Tora do with you, right?”

            He shouldn’t encourage this. “Yes,” he said. He wondered how much he could pull out of this deal, how far he could bend it in his favor. He shouldn’t, but he did.

            “Okay. Down, please,” Lata said.

            Dipper set them down on the floor, and they clambered up the stairs, pants slowly shifting color with every step. He watched them disappear into their bedroom; he could just see the ceiling from where he was, knew that the walls were green and that the light cover was shaped like a little sun and hovered an inch from the ceiling. He knew that on Lata’s bedside table, there was a little figurine filled with light magic—Bentley’s last birthday present after Lata had started having nightmares about being trapped, about being hurt and watching a nice lady cry on an uncomfortable-looking bed.

            Henry’s soul was still weak from Paloma’s incarnation a millennia ago. Dipper didn’t know how much that would affect Lata. Didn’t know how long they had. If they would crash under the pressure of living a few years from now, if they would be caught between the grill of a transporter and a forcefield when twenty-five and on the way to a fourth date with a person who really, really got them and loved them, if they would walk down the wrong street at the wrong time while the wrong person with the wrong Sight and the wrong ideas caught sight of them and pressed their face against a cobblestone street, forty-nine and just divorced and screaming as that wrong person ripped their antlers from their body, if they would be eighty-three and fall to a brand new sickness, brutal and quick and devastating and the price for healing something like that would be a soul, a soul, and Dipper had already loved the sensation of the soul in his palms when he killed it so what would it feel like to swallow it, to feel the warmth against the muscles of his esophagus and feel it be _his his his really his really mine Henry_ —

            “Uncle Dipper? Why do you look like that?”

            Dipper blinked without actually blinking, and the world came back into focus around him. It took him a couple moments to actually take Lata in. “What?”

            Lata’s lips were thinned, their eyes wary. They were on that fifth step again, but they didn’t come straight to him. “Like that. Did you go funny?”

            “I,” Dipper started. He pressed his palm against his forehead, closed his eyes. “Probably. You have something for me so we can go to Australia?”

            Lata nodded, excitement a little dampened. They raised a giant bag of suckers. “I have this! I had to hide it from Mommy and Papa, but Aunt Tora said it was a good in—investing, so here! I want to go to see the Kangaroos.”

            That was a good point, Dipper thought. Kanti and Reynash wouldn’t want their kid in Australia. They hadn’t signed up for that.

            But, Dipper thought there were four hours left until Lata absolutely had to be in bed. That was enough time to go to Australia and back. Definitely. Even if a giant bag of lollipops wasn’t that close to an even deal.

            “Okay,” he said, “but you have to promise not to tell your parents, okay?”

            Lata cheered, and held the bag out. “Kangaroos!”

            “Kangaroos,” Dipper agreed, and took the bag in a flash of blue. Who knew? Maybe he could track down that Acacia reincarnation he’d sensed around that area while they were there.


	4. Tommy Hangar is a Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper and Lata meet Acacia in Australia, Bentley goes to dinner with his aunt, and Torako nearly makes Bentley have a heart attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry yall for my lateness (SEVEN MONTHS) but it's been really busy. Like. Graduated college, moved to the other side of the world (14 hours ahead of where I usually am!!) and started my new job. It's been a ride, let me tell you.

**Chapter Three: Tommy Hangar is a Boss**

            Dipper, when he takes Lata to Australia, fully intends on keeping them close to hand. Safe activities only! No petting dangerous animals. No jumping from rock outcropping to rock outcropping. No toddling close to that creek over there with the increasingly loud bunyip. Dipper looked up from the oddly-energized rock he was holding as Lata approached the child-eating creature.

            “Lata!” He yelled, standing and brushing his human hands off on his knees. “Lata, no, no, come back, that’s not safe!”

            Lata turned around, put their hands on their hips. “Why? He doesn’t look so bad!”

            Dipper observed at the monstrous, oddly-jointed creature. It looked like it was made of cobbled-together animal parts. He could smell it, just a little, and the moistness of the scent had him thinking of the Everglades in summer. Its single, bulging eye was fixed hungrily on Lata, or rather on Henry’s antlers.

If it weren’t for that last, unsettling bit (the bunyip had no right), he might be inclined to agree with his charge. He stepped forward and held a hand out to Lata. “No. Come.”

            “We haven’t even seen any kangaroos,” Lata whined. They stomped their foot. The bunyip inched forward on its odd forearms, half-out of the creek. It bellowed. “You promised me kangaroos!”

            Dipper glared at the bunyip. It didn’t pay him any attention. He bristled; yes, Henry’s antlers were fascinating, but they were _his_ and were from _him_ and also he held far more power than a pair of measly antlers, so the slight was unforgiveable. “Yes, I did, and yes, we’ll find them. Lata, step away from the nightmarish child-eating monster.”

            The bunyip bellowed again, louder and longer, and Lata looked back at it. They paused, brought up one hand to rub at the base of one of their antlers. Good, Dipper thought. Somebody here was finally rightfully worried about the situation. He supposed it couldn’t be helped; the bunyip seemed too stupid to figure out that there was a bigger fish on this dry land.

            But Lata didn’t move. The bunyip wriggled a foot closer. Dipper readied himself to bare his teeth in a nasty snarl.

            “Fuckin’ hell! You cunt, what’re you pissfarting around here with that ankle biter?”

            Dipper turned around. He blinked at the newcomer, and then grinned, the issue of the bunyip momentarily set aside at the wonder in front of him. “Hello!”

            The woman in front of him, in typical park-ranger tans, stared at him like he’d grown three more heads and was still only in possession of about five collective brain cells. Her hair was dark, pulled back into a short ponytail, and there was a bit of stubble on her chin. Dipper was glad it wasn’t red, or curly, but he also wished Acacia’s reincarnation looked just a little more like her.

            Acacia’s reincarnation looked over his shoulder, cursed, and pushed him out of the way. Dipper stepped back, dry grass splintering under his shoes, and watched her unholster a long-distance stunning baton.

            “Kiddiwink,” she said, holding a hand out to Lata, “come stand behind me, sweetheart.”

            Lata looked back at the bunyip, which had crept closer in the time Dipper was lost staring at his old niece. His new nibling—old brother, or whatever, keeping things straight was so hard—made a noise in the back of their throat, and finally tried to shuffle away from the bunyip. The monster’s eyelid drew back even more, its pupil dilated, and then it was rushing forward faster than anything with four joints in its back legs and none in its front should be allowed to.

            Lata’s shrill shriek rose above the bunyip’s warbling roar. Dipper felt a quick flash of fear, and then a stronger thrum of anger for being afraid of such an insignificant creature. But even as he made to drop his human guise he remembered Acacia, before him, and how demons with children were never good combinations to human beings. He hesitated.

            In that moment of hesitation, Acacia whipped the stun baton forward. Runes flared up along its side in solid oranges, and then Dipper felt the energy flung at the charging bunyip. It collided with the creature, invisible except for the clear effects it had on the monster. The bunyip screeched, like stone on stone, and scrambled back towards the safety of the water. It didn’t retreat further though, its eye glaring at them from above the surface.

            Lata clutched at Acacia’s pants, shaking, in tears.

            “Piss off, fuckstain,” Acacia pulled a charmed stone out of her pocket and threw it at the bunyip. The moment the stone plinked into the water, the bunyip let out a hiss like radio static and disappeared under the surface. Dipper watched it swim away. Pride and dissatisfaction warred in him before they were summarily cast aside in favor of bemusement when Acacia stuck one finger right between his eyes.

            “You!” she barked. “What the pissfuck were you thinking, you rabid-dog footracer?”

             “I…” Dipper stared cross-eyed at the finger in front of him. The image didn’t double, and neither did the aura, bright orange with fury. Instead, he could see the individual ridges in the skin, the regressing cuticle and a small nick  at the edge of Acacia’s fingernail. “They wanted to see the kangaroos. So. I brought them. To see the kangaroos. Where are they, anyways? Don’t you have kangaroos here?”

            “You dimwit, have you been living belly-down, head-to-arse in a cave?” Acacia jabbed the finger between his eyes. Dipper had to try very, very hard to not cross his eyes further, because he had been informed that it was Very Creepy and Not Human and he would like Lata to remain in his custody until they saw some kangaroos and blipped out, thank you very much.

            “No,” Lata said. Then, after a pause, they asked, “What’s an arse? Is it an animal? A really small one?”

            “No,” Dipper said. “It means your butt.”

            “Oooh.” Lata shifted their weight and looked up at Acacia. They reached out and held their hand over Acacia’s butt. “Arse.”

            Acacia picked Lata up. Maybe it was to dissuade any more butt-talk. “Now that that’s out of the way, what the fuck are you doing here with a minor and without an arse-minder?”

            “Again, we wanted to see kangaroos?” Dipper eyed Acacia’s grip on Lata and wondered how easy it would be to get his nibling-brother-friend back from his other nibling. “They were supposed to be here?”

            “No they fucken’re not,” Acacia said. She shifted Lata in her arms. “Because there’s been a cupgriffin-coupling load of nasties popping up here! They took out a quarter of our herd sizes before we got all the nonviolents out. It’s not like it’s news fresh in the fuckin pot!”

            “We don’t live here.”

Acacia lifted one eyebrow. “And what about TV?”

Dipper had not been paying attention to the news. When did he need to? If anybody thought it’d be important, they’d tell him. And maybe he would listen. Possibly even remember. “I don’t get TV,” he said.

            “We do!” Lata said. Dipper squinted his eyes at them in a signal to shut up, but they didn’t. “I watch Magical Mumblemuffin every Friday, and Plastisaurus’s Featherfriends on Tuesdays. And then there’s Sailor Sun: Daylight Knight-maidens on Saturdays, and sometimes Daddy lets me watch his police show with him. My favorite’s the Wardress. She kicks butt.” Lata paused, and tilted her head. “She kicks arse?”

            Acacia opened her mouth to ask a question, but a rustle in the tall grass several feet away stopped her. She moved her suspicious gaze from Dipper to the grass, and Dipper took the moment to widen his eyes meaningfully at Lata, seeing as squinting hadn’t worked. Lata looked back at him, completely unaware of the brainwaves he was trying to send them. Dipper wished that Lata had telepathic abilities, like that reincarnation a few lives before he had to eat his brother’s soul. He didn’t remember much of then, coming off the razor edge of ferality, but he did remember many mental conversations. Maybe tinged with panic. Or something. Probably. He hadn’t been in a super great place, then. At least Bentley hadn’t been—well, if Dipper was honest with himself (which he didn’t really want to be), that Henry’s situation had only been marginally better than Bentley’s, not worse. The Mizar Misunderstanding kind of tipped the scales there. Fucking Twin Souls.

            “Let’s have this convo in a better fuckin pit than this infested portapotty dump.” Acacia shifted Lata to her back. “I don’t usually flap like a thimble-warbler fairy when the sun gets shaded, but I’m real fucken interested in why a dude who can’t be trusted to wipe his own ass got this anklebiter and don’t even live in the same house.”

            Dipper almost groaned out loud. The only thing stopping him was the thought of having to explain to Lata’s parents why they had gone to Australia. Or why somebody had reported Alcor the Dreambender snatching a kid out of their arms and vanishing. “I’m their uncle,” he said.

            “Really,” Acacia drawled. Lurid shades of blue and Nk’leka swirled through her aura. Dipper wanted to label them amusement, but he really wasn’t sure.

As they cut through a slightly overgrown patch of vegetation, Acacia absentmindedly kicked a particularly nasty looking two-headed mole-like creature out of the way. It tumbled into the underbrush, spraying acid potent enough to melt through wood and leaf. Dipper hummed in interest, but didn’t root out the others he could feel just meters away to see if they all did the funny acid thing.

            “Yeah!” Lata said, their chubby arms locked neatly around Acacia’s neck. Acacia, like a boss, didn’t blink an eye at nearly getting her windpipes crushed. Dipper rubbed at his throat subconsciously as Acacia stepped around him. “He’s my uncle! He’s fun. Can you really touch your arse with your head, Uncle Dipper?”

            Yes. “No,” he said, because he was a Good and Responsible Human Being with a Spine that wasn’t made of rubber. “Humans can’t do that.”

            “Contortionists can,” Acacia said, and fuck Dipper had forgotten about them, goddammit he was blowing his human cover, he just knew it. Dipper eyed Acacia’s back and wondered how fast he’d need to be to get the jump on her. Anything that could withstand toddler windpipe grip was a foe to be wary of. Not that he wanted Acacia to be his foe.

            “Oh, right,” he said, with an awkward laugh. “But. I can’t do that.” Definitely could. “Most humans can’t?”

             “You’d be surprised,” Acacia muttered. They stepped down from the short hillside to the path carved into the side of it. Dipper followed, careful to make sure his footsteps were just heavy enough to leave prints in the dusty earth.

            “I want to be a contortionist,” Lata said. “I want to touch my arse with my head.”

            Acacia patted Lata’s shin. Dipper hurried up to walk side by side with them both. “Sweetheart, you go for it. I hope that’s the only way you pull that star down to you.”

            “What’s your name, anyways?” Dipper asked, because Bentley was no more like Mabel than Lata was like Henry. And, well, maybe changing the subject would be better. He tilted his head towards Acacia.

            “Tommy Hangar,” She said without missing a beat. “Yours?”

            “Tyrone Pines,” Dipper said.

            Acacia—Tommy—narrowed her eyes at him, and didn’t flinch when Lata started tugging on her ear. Her aura, which had been lightening to pale pinks and lime-fruit green even with the amusement???blues, started to deepen into bright orange again. “I thought your name was Uncle Dipper.”

            “Well, yes,” he drawled. “Haven’t you heard of ni—I mean, it’s my nickname. I’m—an astrologist,” he said, only knowing about astrology in that dim, suppressed way he knew everything.

            “Stars, huh,” Tommy said. Her aura cleared up and began dancing with those amusement colors. Dipper knew they were amusement because he caught just a hint of a grin on her face. “I guess it explains why a fuckwit like you don’t know anything about shit going on down here. Your head is in the clouds, like Filara’s.”

            “Above,” Dipper said, unable to stop himself. “Stars are above the clouds, not in them.”

            Tommy snorted and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. She went down the short set of rough stairs at the same time. Dipper could swear that was a no-go in the Parenting Book. A parenting book. Something.

“Stars in clouds would look so cool!” Lata said, pausing in their attempt to elongate Tommy’s earlobes. “Why aren’t there stars in clouds? And who’s Filara?”

            Dipper was distracted by trying to go down the set of steps in a manner that was Very Human, and didn’t answer right away. Instead, Tommy beat him to it.

            “Because stars are very far away, and if they weren’t, they would be too hot and too big to be in the clouds. Filara’s my wife. And she would agree with you, even if she knows the science is impossible.”

“What about you?” Lata asked.

“Me?” Tommy laughed. A light breeze caught Lata’s hair and blew it into Tommy’s face. “Cute idea, but I’m glad they’re so fuckin far away. One sun is hot efuckingnough.”

            Dipper was only barely able to stop himself from tripping, caught up in the feeling of heat against his front, his side, slowly baking alive and unable to move from the hospital bed because his spine was broken and they hadn’t fixed it yet, had to work around the other breaks over the years from wrangling with nasty supernaturals. He was sixty-three, except. Except. Except he wasn’t him, he was her, she was Tommy and she ached and ached because Filara was expecting her home, they were supposed to go out and—

            “Dipshit, you okay back there?”

            He nearly flinched. Suddenly, he just wanted to be gone. He didn’t want to reconnect with somebody who didn’t know him, who would hate him, who he knew would go up in literal flames. He knew, he knew, he knew.

            Dipper opened his eyes, and met Lata’s gaze. Lips pressed, like their mother’s. Eyes wide, unsure. In the breeze, the leaves on their tiny, underdeveloped antlers bobbed. Up, down, up, down. Dipper remembered so many leaves on so many antlers. He could only place a few to their respective Henry’s faces.

            Dipper closed his eyes. Took a breath, let it out and pushed fire and pain as far down as he could. “I’m fine. Just a muscle spasm.”

            He smiled, not too wide and not too sharp, and did not meet Acacia’s eyes the rest of the way to the Kangaroos. As soon as he had politely refused her offer for homemade lunch and information for ‘dipsitting numbskulls with kids like you,’ and as soon as Lata had their eyeful of Kangaroos, he blipped them fifteen hours back. Then he waited until Lata’s parents got home, and vanished.

            Dipper didn’t think he was going back to Australia any time soon.

            Dipper didn’t think he was going back _anywhere_ any time soon.

* * *

            Bentley thumbed the clock display on his desk and watched it pop up. He was not young enough to fold his arms on his desk and put his head down, but he really, really wanted to. Three more mind-numbing hours of reviewing theory and re-structuring the plan the Thinktank department wanted him to implement was not exactly how Bentley wanted to spend his time.

            “Is…is it right now?”

            He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the poor intern the idiots up at Thinktank had playing courier. Ever since Mahnji left the department, Thinktank had been sending him worse and worse schematics, as evidenced by the fact this was the sixth time the intern had visited him that week. It was Tuesday.

            “No,” he said. He told himself not to take it out on the intern. Poor Sally didn’t deserve his ire; zhe had been perfectly polite and apologetic the entire time. “No, it isn’t, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where or why without looking it up myself.”

            “I’m so sorry,” zhe said, fidgeting with the bottom of zhir jacket with six-fingered hands. “I can take it back?”

            “No, it’s all right,” Bentley said. He ignored the fact that there were two half-finished in-depth projects currently waiting on his work pad. “I’ll fix it up and send it back. When do you get off work?”

            “Um,” Sally said. “I’m supposed to get off at six.”

            “Then if you could come around five, I should have it done by then,” he said. He hated the words even as they left his mouth, but figured that staying an extra hour wouldn’t hurt with how busy Torako had been lately, with how absent Dipper had been. “I’m out the door after that, though, so their input can wait until tomorrow.” Tomorrow, after he’d spent the night drawing up rough schematics that actually worked, instead of the scattered-fishbone scratchmarks they dared call a working proof.

            “Okay,” Sally said. Zhe rubbed zhir long thumbs over zhir knuckles. “I’ll…go now?”

            “Of course,” Bentley said. “Thank you for bringing these to me, and for your patience.”

            Sally let out a weak laugh and waved. Zhir four feet made hardly a sound on the floor as zhe left. Bentley waited until the door had shut before he slowly got to his feet and touched the tips of his fingers to the window. With a slow, downwards swipe, the window opacity lowered until he could just see the city outside.

            Having his own office was nice. It meant that when he really needed to, he could curl up under the desk and breathe a little. Being good at his job—being one of the best thinkers in the industry, actually—had won him his own space, but it also meant that the stress and responsibility was much higher. Bentley wasn’t even thirty yet, but he kept finding white hairs growing in at the sides of his head. Bentley reached up a hand and touched his own hair, watched what he could see of his reflection in the window.

            His father’s face stared back at him.

There were subtle differences, of course—Bentley had a rounder face, his nose was wider, his eyes bigger and his ears had detached lobes—but Bentley really knew it was him because of the hair: two-toned, shaggy and starting to grow over his eyes. It wasn’t short, not like Philip’s. Bentley didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.

Bentley closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the glass. Sigil formulas danced behind his eyelids, shifting and changing shape. What Thinktank wanted was something that could work in tandem with concealment wards. Easier said than done; sigils didn’t really like playing with other magics. Sigilists had to beat around the bush in order to bend the sigils to a purpose like working with wards. When Ben remembered the schematics Thinktank had sent him, he had to admit—if only to himself—that they _had_ made a good attempt at it. It was fairly creative, actually. But all the same, Bentley knew deep in his gut that their current schematics were likelier to tear vicious, angry holes in the wards than support foreign magic.

Knowing it would fail was one thing. Figuring out the fix was another entirely.

His phone chimed on the desk. It wasn’t Torako’s muted guitar riff unfortunately, but it also wasn’t his coworker dove-croon tone, which made it twice as safe a distraction to look at. Bentley opened his eyes and went to check the handheld.

Meung-soo’s name stared up at him. Bentley smiled a little to himself as he swiped to access the message.

 _Bentley,_ it said. He sat down, sigil schematics out of mind for the moment. _As you know, I enjoyed lunch with you this past Saturday, and I was hoping you might be available for dinner tonight. Perhaps with your partners, if they have the time? I was told there was an excellent Italian place near my hotel. Maybe around 6?_

Bentley hummed, and turned his chair in a circle. He wanted to, but wasn’t about to leave Torako high and dry for dinner unless she was alright without company that night. There wasn’t much by the way of leftovers in the fridge, after all, and it had gotten a bit lonely without Dipper in the apartment—he wasn’t about to subject Torako to that, not after he’d volunteered to make dinner.

So, instead of replying to his Aunt—he was at work, he could say he didn’t see the message immediately—he tapped the right corner of the phone twice to call Torako. She picked up on the second-to-last ring.

“Ben? What’s wrong?”

“Hey Tora, Meung-soo texted with an offer to go to dinner around 6, if you’re free then?”

Torako let out a deep breath. The static dissolved in the space between the speaker and his ear so that all he heard was its fuzzy echoes, softened and quiet. “Stars, Ben, I’d love that, but I don’t think I’ll get out of here any time soon.”

Ben frowned. He pushed the pads to the side of his desk and leaned on the clearest surface. “Tora? You sound really tired.”

“Haha,” she said. Her tone became lighter, and if Ben hadn’t known her for almost half his life, he wouldn’t have become suspicious. “Yeah, it’s pretty tense around here. Really busy. I’ll be okay though! You should go and spend time with your aunt.”

“Tora, it’s okay, I can spend time with her later. What do you want for dinner? I’ll go out and pick stuff up if I need to.”

“Ben.” There was a thump on Tora’s end. “Ben. Darling. Friendo. Buddy. What did we talk about last week?”

Bentley honestly couldn’t remember. “I don’t know?”

“Family. You reconnecting with them. And you were so happy after your lunch with her, so I don’t see why you should skip out on dinner. She’s only here for what, a few more days?”

“End of the week,” Bentley said. “She leaves Saturday.”

“Exactly,” Torako said. “A few more days. Go have dinner! If you’re really worried, you can bring me back a serving of whatever you have. Where are you going, anyways?”

“Italian, near her hotel,” Bentley said. “I think it’s a place on West side?”

“Oooh, that place! Yeah, bring me back whatever, whenever. If you’re not back by the time I am—which, hah, unlikely—I’ll just stuff my face with vegetables or something. Maybe some crackers.” There was a suspicious pause. “Or something.”

“…you have Moffios in the house, don’t you.”

“Something!” Torako said. “Not Moffios!”

Bentley sighed. “Well, I suppose that if you went out and got them, like the adult you are, I can’t stop you from eating them. Even if I want to. You sure you don’t want me to come back and cook?”

“No! And well, maybe Moffios will be involved,” Torako said. Bentley _knew_ it. If he were younger and had less control over his pettier characteristics, he would absolutely find and destroy them. With prejudice. “But, point is: I will feed myself if you come home later. If you come home earlier, you will bring me food. Okay?”

“You’re sure?” Bentley traced a note between the forcefields of his desk. “Positive?”

“Yes, Ben. Go. Talk with your aunt. Eat good food. Bring me good food. I will eat it eventually, if not tonight. Besides, won’t you be lonely waiting around for me? Dip’s not been back in a couple days.”

“I mean. I guess I would be.” Bentley made a mental note to summon Dip back if he was gone beyond Friday. He could be in trouble, or sad, or something; even powerful forces of the supernatural like Dipper weren’t without their weaknesses. “But like. Moffios. Do I really want to leave you with just those in the house to eat.”

“Only maybe Moffios!” Torako said. “Not definitely Moffios! And even if, hypothetically, there were Moffios, I am an Adult and will eat Something Healthy with my Delicious Breakfast Cereals.”

“You can’t call Moffios cereal,” Bentley said. “They tarnish the good name of cereal if you do.”

“You tarnish the good name of cereal,” Torako muttered. Then, louder, she said, “Okay, so you go out to dinner, I’ll suffer here at my intern job which is going to pay me overtime if it’s the last thing I accomplish, and we’ll meet up tonight even if it’s me crawling into bed and shoving my elbow in your face.”

Bentley was intimately familiar with Torako’s elbows. It’s part of why he liked being little spoon. “Okay, if you’re alright with that, then I’m good. Good luck at work.”

“You too. And have fun with your Aunt! I’m really happy you’re getting to know her, and that she’s not awful.”

Bentley laughed. “What, that’s as high as you’ll go for her? She’s not nice? Good? Decent?”

“I haven’t even met her!” Torako whined. “It’s called reserving judgment. Now, I really have to go, so—”

“Alright, love you lots. Don’t stick around too long.”

“Love you too, dork. Later!” Torako hung up. Bentley closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and tried to hold onto the echoes of her voice for as long as he could.

But, eventually, he couldn’t ignore the text or his work any longer. So he sent a reply to his Aunt— _Unfortunately neither of my partners can come, but I can meet you at six, if that’s alright with you!—_ and pulled the most recent datapad toward him. He imported the document into his note-taking software, and began to tear Thinktank’s proposition apart.

* * *

 

            “—and really, when you put sigils with other forms of magic,” Bentley found himself saying over dinner, “you avoid nature sigils as much as possible. Especially elemental ones, like fire, or water. That’s a pretty basic and steadfast rule! There are a few exceptions, but Thinktank should know better than to try to anchor their protection formulas with ‘earth,’ because all that’s going to happen is chaos and a lawsuit. Or our building going down when my team tests the sigils.”

            Meung-soo chuckled, and propped her chin on her palm. A single silver hoop slid down from her wrist with the motion until it rest halfway down the soft swell of her forearm. It had some kind of ward embossed into the metal, but Bentley hadn’t yet asked what its purpose was. Maybe it was to subtly alter the appearance of her arms and disguise liver spots. Perhaps it was to detect foods she was allergic to and warn her in advance. Maybe she had a poor constitution and the bracelet supported her compromised immune system. He hadn’t noticed wards on the bracelets she wore last time, but he wasn’t paying attention either. Wards weren’t really his thing, though he was learning.

            There was so much he didn’t know about his aunt. There was so much, he was realizing, that he was excited to learn about her.

            “Earth seems pretty stable to me, though,” she said. “Shielding wards often invoke earth-related words. Why can’t sigils?”

“Because natural sigils are too raw,” Bentley said. “They’re not refined enough. That kind of power, paired with sigils’ tendency to attack other magics they’re put with, is a bad combination. Sigils are like—um, this isn’t perfect, but they’re like white cells.”

Meung-soo’s eyebrows rose. “So other magics are sicknesses? Viruses?”

“Agh, no,” Bentley said. He pushed his plate of half-eaten lasagna out of the way. “Maybe it would be better to say that sigils see themselves as white cells, in that everything else is there to get in their way or get on top.”

“Are sigils sentient?”

Bentley opened his mouth to answer no, then closed it and leaned back in his chair. He looked up at their slowly spinning table-light, warm-toned but somewhat dim. “I mean, there’s not been a lot of research. And people don’t go into sigils as much because they’re hard, and frustrating to work with in an age where combining magics is preferable to sticking to one, and they’re inconvenient because of needing sentient energy. But because of the SE, maybe some of the intent lingers in the sigils? Maybe they become a little sentient? I don’t know, it’s not really my area.”

Meung-soo nodded and took a bite of her shrimp fettuccini. Bentley saw her tapping her fork and waited for her to finish.

“So sigils might have some level of sentience, but nobody knows. And they don’t play will with other magics. So how does your phone work?”

Bentley blinked. “My phone?”

“You said it was warded,” Meung-soo said. “But I saw sigils on the outside rim, so that must mean they’re working together?”

“Ah, no, sorry,” Bentley said. “I meant warded as in protected. It’s all sigilwork. More complicated than the stuff I had at school, but it’s been a decade and this is for heavier duty work.” Bentley shifted the phone just a bit further away from his plate. Sigil-warded it may be, but it was not impervious to food or water.

“Oh, I see,” Meung-soo said. She smiled. “There’s some overlap with other magics, then, even if sigils hates them?”

Bentley frowned, trying to figure out where she’d come to that conclusion. “I mean, there’s overlap between all magics, but why do you say that?”

“The use of warded, even if just as a word,” Meung-soo said, holding up a hand and beginning to pull down fingers in count. “Then you said that the sigil for fire is the same as the alchemical symbol, which is a different branch of magic. And some of the sigils I was able to see on your phone looked a lot like words, like wards use.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s really observant of you,” Bentley said. He relaxed into a bit of a slouch and smiled back. “You’re really smart. Dad said my mom was really smart too; is it just a family thing?”

Meung-soo’s smile dimmed a little, turned a tiny bit bitter and soft with sorrow. There was a burst of laughter from the group two tables down, harsh in the sudden silence between Bentley and his aunt. A server passed behind Meung-soo, their elbow clipping the back of her chair, but she didn’t move even when the server apologized quickly.

“I’m sorry,” Bentley hurried to say. “You don’t have to answer that. We can change the subject.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sure that…that you’d like to know more about Soo-jan. Susan.” Meung-soo pushed some of her noodles around. “Yes, she was smart. So smart. More smart with her body, smart in doing, than she was book-smart, but she was a bit of that, too.”

            Bentley remained silent. He watched Meung-soo’s eyes, which suddenly looked so tired, watched the way her left hand trembled. He wanted to tell her it was okay not to continue, but it wouldn’t come out. The air around them was suddenly so heavy.

            “I was the book-smart one, but she was the one who practiced until she remembered like it was second nature. When I was ten, she could outclimb me and beat me in karuta matches because she remembered the best spots to put her weight, and she remembered the words to the poems better than I did. When we were older, she always took the lead on vacations and dragged me along to see new things. You’re not her, but…you remind me of her, sometimes. You remind me of Philip, too, but Soo-jan was far more adventurous.”

            If there wasn’t that quiet tension in the air, Bentley would have laughed self-depreciatingly. “Adventurous?”

            Meung-soo finally looked him in the eye. Her mouth quirked up in a smile. “You went to school and then to work in another country with only one other friend. You decided to enter a field that wasn’t very viable at the time, and are at the top of your field. Didn’t your work send you abroad several times already? It said so on the website.”

            “Uh,” Bentley said, because that really wasn’t so special. Honestly. And then he registered what she heard, and asked, “Website? You looked me up?”

            Meung-soo flushed. “I. Um. I was. Yes.”

            “You…stalked me online?” Bentley had a hard time wrapping his head around this. He was barely present on social media. He had forgotten that the company had a website. He hadn’t even known they featured articles about their employees, though the fact rubbed him as somewhat familiar.

            She went darker and started to fiddle with the napkin. “I. Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, I just wanted to know—”

            “No, no, it’s fine!” Bentley said, holding up his hands. “You’re fine, I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m not really online much?”

            Meung-soo laughed, a little awkwardly. “I suppose that’s true, yes. I’m not really either. Again, Soo-jan was more adventurous. Outgoing.”

            Bentley had never been outgoing in his life. Well, maybe when he was a very young child, but aside from that, outgoing had been firmly in Torako’s playing field. He wondered if Meung-soo seeing her sister in him was just wishful thinking.

            His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Meung-soo softened from stiff embarrassment. “I’m not trying to say you are Soo-jan. Or your father—I remember him being rather vivacious. You’re just familiar, sometimes. It’s okay to be your own person, though.”

            “Okay.” Bentley dropped his hands into his lap, then set them up above the table surface as manners demanded. “I. Um. I don’t think much can top Mom’s job, anyways.”

            Meung-soo laughs, all signs of embarrassment gone. “Oh, Soo-jan’s job. Our parents were so mad at her! Ma wanted her to go into something safer, Mama wanted her to marry and stay at home, and Anjan said that anything was fine except for that. Even being a self-employed cult-hunter was better than going to Dip in California, of all places!”

            Bentley supposed he understood the aversion. Out west, the storms were unpredictable—both natural and magical. The oceans were still dangerous, even two millennia after Alcor tore the coast into pieces, cutting a new plate into the Earth’s crust. It was just starting to breach the surface of the ocean in volcanic islands. Magically, supernaturally-charged islands, that nobody even wanted to touch yet.

            “She did do a lot of exploring in what time she had, though,” Bentley said. “And Dad said she stopped when she found out she was pregnant with me.”

            “At four months,” Meung-soo said. “She barely showed, even after that. That made our parents mad at her too.”

            Bentley knew his maternal grandparents hadn’t liked him while they were alive, but this made it seem like they didn’t like his mother either. He frowned, and took the last bite of his pasta to stop himself from asking if they ended up hating his mother.

            “But I remember her sending pictures of you when you were born,” Meung-soo said. She had an absent smile on her face, and was looking out the window beside them. It was showing the Italian Alps, in real time. “I can’t have children, and never wanted to, but in that moment I almost wished I could.” She looked at him, and that smile was back on her face, both soft with memory and sharp with bitterness. There was another burst of laughter from the table two groups down. “You were absolutely precious.”

            Bentley had finished chewing his food. It was all gone, even the complimentary bread in the basket between himself and his aunt, so he didn’t have anything to occupy his mouth when he said, “Why didn’t you ever visit, or send messages?”

            Meung-soo blinked. The bittersweet expression washed off her face, like dirt on the streets and houses after a magical torrent of rain. “What?”

            “Nevermind,” Bentley said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ask that.”

            Meung-soo stared at him like she was seeing him for the first time. She frowned, and looked away. “No, it’s. I. I didn’t. I’m sorry, it’s complicated.”

            Bentley watched her, and waited for the rest of the answer. She took a long, long time to give it, and in that time Bentley found himself wishing that the laughing table would shut up.

            “After your mother died,” Meung-soo said, “your father and I got in a big fight. We…didn’t see eye to eye on where Soo-jan’s memorial should be. Didn’t see eye-to-eye on where you should be raised. Didn’t see eye-to-eye on his job. And they were stupid, petty fights all wrapped up into one, and I was wrong about many things, but it stopped us from reconciling. We said awful things to one another.”

            Bentley opened his mouth and asked another awful question. “Did you want him to die?”

            Meung-soo looked up at him, eyes wide and startled. “No!” She said. “No, I never did. I was shocked when I heard he died. Why would you think…”

            Bentley shrugged. “My father wasn’t well known, or highly-regarded. I had one person come to the funeral that hated him, and wouldn’t even pretend at being sorry.” He swallowed the grief and anger down, and didn’t look at Meung-soo. “They brought me orange lilies at my father’s funeral, and made me accept them.”

            Meung-soo didn’t speak for a while. Bentley was finding it harder and harder to keep the tears at bay, staring at the sauce on his plate, the oil glinting in the light overhead.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I didn’t know that. I’m so, so sorry.”

            They were both quiet again, Philip’s death, Soo-jan’s death hanging over them. Bentley closed his eyes and wished he could call Torako, or summon Dipper, and have them come at once to hold him.

            Meung-soo broke the silence. “Hey. Do you—sometimes, when I think of Soo-jan and it hurts too much, I eat something chocolate and remember how much it made her smile. Dessert sound good?”

            Bentley took a deep breath and looked up at Meung-soo. She looked just as tired as he felt. He wondered, then, if he would be that way about his father two decades in the future. He hoped he wasn’t. He hoped he was, too. He didn’t know what he hoped.

            “Sure,” he managed. “Dad liked berries.”

            They ordered dessert.

* * *

            Torako should have expected it. She’d been up early and out of work late. The day had been all about running around town, contacting apartment managers in person to ask them to keep an eye out for tenants who hadn’t left their apartments. It had been a lot of deskwork, looking through odd cases from the hospitals with the other two interns in hopes that the summoned demon has finally claimed a victim. There should have been a victim. Alû worked fast, there should have been something, and there was this low undercurrent of ‘currently freaking the hell out’ at the station that had everybody tense and easy to offend. Mellie, who Tora got along with fairly well usually, burst into tears when Torako snapped about working faster, even though Torako knew Mellie found numbers easier to read than letters and that Mellie was going as fast as she could. Torako still felt like a jerk, even though she’d immediately apologized and taken Mellie to the break room to calm down.

            But nothing had happened. Nothing was happening. And Torako felt the pressure of being a demonologist, especially that of being a demonologist intern; everybody expected her to magically find the symptoms that connected the patient to the crime. It just wasn’t happening yet. Which meant everybody kept staring at her more and more expectantly, and Torako was going absolutely insane. She should have taken off to have dinner with Bentley and Meung-soo, just to unwind a bit. Instead, though, she’d stayed at the office, taking every call about every new admitted patient with coma-like or paralysis-like symptoms that ultimately ended in nothing. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_. Not even the delicious spaghetti dinner Bentley brought back had helped with the frustration and exhaustion.

            So when Torako half woke up in the middle of the night, and she heard Momma Mai in the doorway asking her where she put the butter, where the butter was put, because Momma Mai needed to make pancakes with the butter so Torako, just tell her where the butter is—Torako thought _Oh fuck, not this again_ , and tried to move.

            As expected, she couldn’t. Her hands were dead weight on the blankets, her arm lead over her side, her eyes stuck shut under a force. Opening them felt like she was playing at Atlas lifting the world, except she’s not Atlas—thank fuck, because she’s not keen on getting her stomach pecked out. Or whatever the legend says.

            Torako breathed, and focused on breathing harsher, and harsher, until she was letting out little whines. She was scared, a little, but she’s been having sleep paralysis since she went demon-hunting slash cult-bashing that one year between undergrad and grad. So honestly, it was more frustrating now that she knew what was happening. There was a twinge of unease at the empty space at her back where Dipper usually was, though. He wasn’t behind her to laugh, then offer to eat the paralysis even though it apparently tastes awful. Like feet bathed in vinegar and then mixed with the cloves the dentist stuffs in your mouth when you get dry socket.  

            Bentley stirred in front of her. _Thank the world_ , Torako thought. Then he woke up, turned around, and must have seen her still and almost hyperventilating because she felt the bed shake with the force of him sitting up. “Torako?!”

            She didn’t know why he was so panicked. She wished she could see his face. He touched hers, held her cheeks in his hands, but she couldn’t move. Not a finger, not even her mouth—just her breath, faster and harsher in the pursuit of waking up.

            “Fuck, Torako, did—fuck, what was the name of that demon? Oh my god, I’m calling Dipper, it can’t have you it can’t _have_ you!”

            Torako was confused for approximately two and three-quarters of a second. Then she remembered her case, and how she’d warned Bentley that comas and paralysis might not be just comas and paralysis, and she panicked.

            In a burst of sheer will, she wrenched her eyes open and let out a shuddering, uncontrollable sob that’s less emotion and more physical response.

            Bentley stared at her, wide-eyed and with tears just starting to form. For a long moment, she stared into the whites of his eyes in the dark, and then Bentley clapped twice to turn the nightlight on. He pulled her up into his arms and started to cry into her neck.

            Wordlessly, she folded her arms around him and rubbed up and down his back. He blubbered things about how scared he was, how she was never allowed to scare him like that again, how he would hunt down that demon himself even though he’d never been too active about the whole Cult-Smashing-Mizar schtick before. She hummed and nodded and focused on being alive and present for Bentley.

            Maybe it should have been the other way around. Maybe he should have been the one comforting her. But he had, so many times in the past, and she knew from her end that she would be okay—he didn’t. He didn’t. And if Torako had woken up to Bentley, whining in bed and not moving a single muscle, her heart would have been in her throat within miliseconds.

            “Do you want to call Dipper?” She asked at length, when Bentley had calmed down a little and was breathing steadier. Bentley pressed his face further into her neck.

            “I don’t think so,” he murmured, fingers looser in the folds of her sleep shirt. It’s that old Sugar Daddy one, from college. Torako wonders if she should make them all new ones. Maybe some cool sunglasses to go with them. “He—he might be busy. I wanted to call him on Friday, if he hadn’t been back home by then.”

            “Fair enough,” Torako whispered. “But if it happens again, could you? It’s so much easier when he eats them.”

            Bentley didn’t ask what she’d give him, or what he’d give Dipper on her behalf. Dipper loves Moffios almost as much as Torako does. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

            They held each other for another five, ten minutes, before exhaustion pulled them under again. Torako fought the oncoming fits of paralysis, brought about by overexhaustion, until she wasn’t thinking or fighting anymore.

            Neither of them were awake when Alcor the Dreambender blipped into the room, summoned by Bentley’s spike of fear. He looked at them for a long time, and then plucked a thin, rapidly growing sprout of paralysis from the space just above Torako’s ear. He ate it.

            His impassive features twisted into a open-mouthed look of revulsion. “God that’s gross,” he whispered out loud. “Gross gross gross gross gross. Ew. No. Blech. Where’s my candy.”

            He pet at his tongue. Underneath him, Bentley and Torako slept, tense, exhausted, and worried. Alcor looked at them one last time, looked at the space behind Torako’s back, and wanted. Then he thought about Acacia burning, about elderly Bentley holding elderly Torako’s hand in the face of a magical hurricane and being swept away by the torrential floods, about young Bentley wasting away in a bright white space, about middle-aged Torako with her throat slit in the center of a circle she had almost broken up, about their graves in a thousand different forms in a hundred different places, and he couldn’t.

            Dipper closed his eyes, and blipped away.


	5. Olla Summons a Tutor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper is overdramatic, Bentley has dinner at home with Torako and Meung-soo, and a victim is finally found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HEADS UP  
> At the end of the chapter, there is a very short section with non-consensual kissing. This is a dream. It doesn't actually happen to the character in question. BUT it still happens and you need to be aware of that.

**Chapter 4: Olla Summons a Tutor**

           Wednesday went by in the same rush of slow-cook tension as the day before it. Torako, exhausted from her bout of sleep paralysis the night before, and Bentley, exhausted by the idea of her targeted by the very demon she’s hunting, decided to take Thursday afternoon off. Bentley invited Meung-soo over for dinner, reasoning that it was less expensive anyways. Meung-soo agreed and was apparently excited enough to send Bentley a virtual sticker. He gushed over it for ages. Torako agreed to be on call for the evening in exchange for not having to physically be at the police station. Most of it was a waiting game at that point, and Torako would rather be called in when she was needed rather than sit around and do nothing. The magical creature disappearances had died down after they’d been connected to the cultists, the robbery at the magitech appliance store had been labeled a dead end, and nobody was turning up incapable of moving. Torako worried, of course—why did cultists need that many magical creatures? Why was the demon taking so long to strike? Were they summoning more demons?—but there was honestly nothing to do about it.

           Which is why, at 15:22, she was pushing a cart along at the closest Mizzle Twizzle Market and pulling things off the highest shelves for Bentley. For example, a package of assorted specialty fruits from the Californian Island Federation that he needed for dessert.

           “Why do they insist on putting that stuff up high, anyways?” Bentley groused, ticking the fruits off their shopping list on his phone. “It’s so stupid.”

           “Not priority for shoppers,” Torako said. “Or they hate short people.” She put the bag in the cart and leaned against the shelf. “What’s next?”

           Bentley muttered to himself for a moment before biting his lip. “I have a bunch of veg on the list next, and after that is fish, but I could swear there was something else before we got there. Bread? No, not bread.”

           “Were we just shopping for tonight or for later as well?” Torako bent over and looked at the list from above. She wasn’t a champion at upside-down reading, but she was pretty proficient.

           “I was only thinking tonight,” Bentley said, moving out of the way of another shopper and their two rambunctious children. “But I just can’t think of what other fruit we’d need for dinner…”

           Torako scrolled down the list with her forefinger and let out a sound of realization at the same time Bentley did. Nearly in tandem, they said, “The pineapple!”

           “Canned or fresh, though?” Torako said.

           “Canned, of course,” Bentley said, as somebody who’d grown up in a household with a stricter budget. “Superior to fresh in taste.”

           “But in terms of nutrient value, isn’t fresh better?” Torako asked. She grinned at him. “You know, for somebody who always reminds me about how awful Moffios are for you…”

           Bentley groaned and pushed the cart into the vegetable section. “Skies above, Tora, the Hellsugar is in a completely other league. Don’t even compare them.”

           Torako ruffled his hair, then reached around him to snag a package of long-stemmed mushrooms from the aisle display. She tossed them into the cart. “Okay, okay, I won’t. So if we’re just shopping for tonight, I’m going to guess we aren’t going to pick up some sugary stuff for our buddy Dip? Like—oh! Dip-paddle-pops for Dip-paddle-pops. He loves ice cream, it’s practically his name, it’s perfect. He’d love it and hate it.”

           Bentley made a small noise. He hefted an onion in one hand, weighed it, and then put it back. “I’d usually say no, but…maybe? And maybe some Gummy gums too?”

           “You planning on calling then?” Torako said. She relaxed her shoulders, cocked one hip and set her hand on it. Parent with two children between the fruits and the vegetables, two kids throwing oranges as hard as they could at the floor just to see them bounce up off the produce shield. Centaur looking at the assorted donuts and shifting his hooves like he was indulging in some guilty pleasure. Hooded figure heading from breads to meats, cart filled with an alarming number of apples and a single loaf of pumpernickel. There was nobody close enough to overhear Ben and Tora’s conversation.

           Still, better safe than sorry. She was pretty sure the police station had contacted businesses about installing mics and cams to catch cultists with more ease. Torako wasn’t so sure about that move, but desperate times, desperate measures. The cultists needed to be caught, the demon needed to be removed. Period.

           Not that they’d been having much luck on that count, but it was better than just sitting and doing nothing.

           “I’m thinking about it,” Bentley said. He found an onion that met his standards, set it in the cart, and then pushed down to the eggplants. “He hasn’t been home for days, not since he went to babysit Lata.”

           “I mean, everything’s fine, right?” Torako made a face at one of the cucumbers for sale, and set her sights higher up the pile in the hopes that it would be better quality. “Do we know that?”

           Behind her, the cart’s anti-grav boosters hummed a little as the cart was moved. “Actually, Kanti sent me a mail this morning while I was at work. She wanted to know if she could get into contact with him through me, because the usual methods weren’t working.”

           “More babysitting?” Torako snagged one cucumber, and then two because she couldn’t remember how many they had in the stasis fridge. “So soon? That’s odd.”

           “Mmm, no, not babysitting.” Bentley, when she turned around, had moved on from eggplant to squash, phone in his pocket for the moment. “She just wanted to talk with him. Apparently, Lata’s learned several new words in the space of a night, and that she has a new friend named Tommy and that she and her Uncle now have a Big Secret and she Can’t Say What It Is.”

           “So, she’s understandably concerned.” Torako put the cucumbers in the cart.

           Bentley nodded, picked up a smaller sweet-squash, and turned around. He held it in his hands, and looked down at it while leaning against the produce display. “Honestly, I am too. Maybe a little about Lata, but…”

           “This isn’t like him, I get it.” Torako leaned over the cart and stroked Bentley’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “We can try calling him on Friday, maybe? It’ll give us time to double check the house, prep, all that.”

           Bentley leaned into the back of her hand and let out a soft breath. His shoulders slumped. She leaned in closer and pecked him on the forehead. As she did so, Bentley whispered, “You sure we can’t do it tonight? Before dinner? I’m feeling a little anxious about it. What if something’s happened?”

            “He’s a strong guy, he can take care of himself.” Torako pressed her forehead to his. She could smell his shampoo—coconut milk, hint of cinnamon. “At least, he can for another day. Nothing can get him down for long.”

           “Except himself,” Bentley murmured. He pressed back, probably shifting his weight from his heels to his toes. “That’s what worries me.”

            “I know,” Torako said. She pulled back a little to look Ben in the eye and lowered her voice. “But things are…pretty tense. With the situation, you know, and I don’t—I don’t want a mistake on our end to ruin things for us. I know the wards have worked before, but…We’ve come so close in the past. I don’t want that. We don’t have enough time before your aunt comes over to…make sure. That calling him would be fine.”

           Bentley’s mouth twisted. He looked away, squash still in both hands. His brow was wrinkled, and the skin at the edges of his eyes was tight. “I know,” he whispered. “I don’t like it, but I know.”

           Torako stroked his cheek again to get him to look at her. “I get it, sweetheart. I don’t like it either. But we’re—we’re not in college. We’re not as young anymore, we’ve got to take things a little more carefully.”

           Bentley laughed. “We’re twenty-seven,” Bentley said. “It’s not like we’re fifty.”

           “Still,” Torako said with a little grin. “I’d rather be cautious. I don’t want you going anywhere, no more than I want Dip to.”

           He reached out and punched her lightly in the shoulder. “Well, good thing I don’t plan on going anywhere. You don’t either, right?”

           Torako reached out and ruffled his hair. Bentley squawked and tried to hit away her hand with one of his. “You’re stuck with me, Benny-boy. What’s next on the list?”

           “Fish,” Bentley said. “And some chicken. Ready to go over to the meat section?”

           Torako waggled her eyebrows. “Only if I get to know it real well first.”

           Bentley sputtered and smacked her, squash still in one arm. She cackled and danced out of the way.

           “That was a good one, and you know it!” she crowed. She missed Dipper backing her up, but she could handle it on her own for a bit. Besides, Dipper was missing out—Bentley’s embarrassed, indignant face was the best.

           “I should never take you shopping!” Bentley said, putting down the squash. “Never! You’re a menace!”

           He still followed her to the meat section, though.

* * *

           “Immortality sucks, you know that?”

           Grocknar the Destroyer opened one of his three eyes. He did not look very impressed, but Dipper didn’t let that stop him from continuing.

           “I know it’s not actually immortality,” he continued, aware in a very dim way that as all things end, so too would he, “but it may as well be. I exist so much  _longer_  than…than them.”

           Grocknar the Destroyer had just come back from giving some poor kid a nightmare about centipedes crawling up her body and devouring her bite by bite. He was pretty exhausted, which was why he hadn’t moved like all the other nightmares had once they realized Alcor the Dreambender was in a Mood. Dipper didn’t even know how long he’d been sitting there with his nightmare sheep before he started speaking.

           “And when you pair the immortality with omniscience…” Dipper trailed off. He reached down and tugged grass out of the ground, one strand at a time. It always grew back. At least the grass looked and acted the same when it did that.

           The nightmare snorted and turned onto his other side, back to Dipper. Dipper was the boss here though, so Dipper didn’t care what his minions did. He just kept pulling grass, mentally pulling all his thoughts into order.

           “I keep seeing them die,” he confessed to Grocknar. “I keep seeing all the ways they can die, and I was able to push it aside at first because it didn’t happen too often, but—”

           But then Philip died. Philip died, and Dipper had never told Bentley but he’d seen that possible death of Philip’s. He’d seen Philip trip and fall and die for absolutely no reason. And Dipper shook it off, because Bentley was eighteen and had just gotten back from that nightmare school tour and he needed comfort in his father. He didn’t need to be told Dipper had seen Philip die—like he had seen Philip die at eighty-seven, of stress due to overwork, or peacefully at a hundred and four, or in a magical storm at sixty-two. So he’d put it aside, and then forgotten about it, until days after Philip’s funeral when Dipper had the sudden realization that he’d  _seen_ Philip die like that. He never, ever wanted to tell Bentley.

           “After that, I tried so hard to keep it down, but they came more and more often and I keep thinking what if? What if it actually happens like that? I can’t—I can’t save them. Not from something like that, not without something big in return.” Dipper dug his claws into the imaginary earth of the Mindscape, envisioned what the granules of dirt would feel like and willed the sensation into being. He kept staring down at the ground. “And now I just keep thinking—is it worth it? They’re here for such a short time, and it hurts so much when they leave. The more people I know, the more it hurts.”

           He clenched his hand so hard the pressure could turn earth into stone. He imagined that too, made it happen. When he pulled his hand out of the earth, Dipper opened it to see an unassuming rock, brown and rough and completely solid. “But—but Bentley said it’s not fair to just rely on him,” he said. “So I can’t do that. I can’t hurt him, and if I’m not there, I’m not hurt when he leaves too. Win-win, right?”

           Dipper didn’t see it, too engrossed with being God of the Mindscape along with his relationships with mortal beings, but Grocknar the Destroyer opened his other two eyes and then rolled them all. Dipper did hear him baah, though.

           He dropped the rock and looked over at Grocknar. He scowled. “Really, Grocknar?”

           Grocknar stared at him over one smoke-wool shoulder.

           “I am not being dramatic! This is completely legitimate thinking!”

           The nightmare had the gall to baah him in the face. In the  _face_. Dipper sputtered.

           “You—you insolent—really? Seriously? You went there?”

           Grocknar shook his head in an equivalent of “well, if the shoe fits,” and Dipper stood in a huff. In a fit of pettiness, he waved his hand and removed the grass from the ground around them, as far as a mile out.

           “I’ll show you  _dramatic_ ,” Dipper hissed. Grocknar made a noise of discontent and finally stood up. He stared Dipper in his eyes, and they glowered at each other for who knows how long.

           A summons tugged at Dipper. Dipper had originally brushed all them off—especially small ones like this one—but he decided that he needed a distraction. From Grocknar, but from everything else too.

           “I’m going,” Dipper said. “Because I have a job to do, an actual  _job_  that keeps all of you  _safe_ because it builds  _my_ power levels and  _I don’t eat you unlike other demons_. No need to thank me. You’re welcome.”

           Grocknar bleated out something along the lines of “I wasn’t going to thank you, good riddance.” Dipper bristled, made the ‘I’m watching you’ gesture, and then blipped off to answer his summons. Like a good demon. Emphasis on Good.

           Dipper closed his eyes as he materialized, and then boomed out, “W̕h̷̡͘o ̷͜ d҉aŗęs͞ ͘҉̶ s̴u̕͜mm̴o҉̕n̡ ͢ Alc̴or ̨҉̧ t͘h̛e̸̢  ͡Ḑre͠a̡̕͡m҉͠b͘͢e͟n̢d͏͜e҉͟r̡?”

           “Woah, dude, that is  _so_ wicked,” a young person breathed. Dipper cracked one eye open and stared at the kid that summoned him. Their hair was pulled back into braids, ribbons tying each end in a haphazard cacophony of color. Dipper opened the other eye and stared a little more, feeling his metaphorical heart sink.

           Of course the first summons he answered was that of a reincarnation.

           Dipper scowled. “What do you want, Soos?”

           “Cool nickname but nah, I’m Olla,” she said. Her accent was very British. She snapped her fingers at him and grinned wide. “Last name is Sussally, though, so maybe Soos would catch?”

           Dipper inhaled deep. “What. Is̴ ͏i͡t?”

           “Like, okay dude,” Olla said, scooting their desk chair over. It hovered over the floor, complaining a little at the food wrappers on the ground. “So, some ancestor of mine apparently did this, so like, you’re open for homework deals, right? Because Tech class is still kicking my ass and we’re ending term. I’m screwed if I don’t get help now!”

           “And your parents are…” Dipper asked. He screwed up his mouth into a scowl and sat mid-air, reclining as elegantly as possible.

           “Haha, Mom’s not really big on Tech stuff? She’s into wards. Big into wards. No room in her head for other stuff, you know? All her brain power is,” Olla made a sound that was maybe supposed to sound like an engine, and wiggled her fingers. “occupied, you know? And Dad’s away on business. Busy busy dude, over in Kabul. Doin some kind of construction business for his boss, right? So I don’t have anybody.”

           “Friends? Teachers? The police?”

           Olla hummed and kicked her legs. Her toes brushed just shy of the air contained by the circle, and Dipper watched them with an absentminded hunger. Like, he wasn’t consumed by it, but also he wouldn’t say no if somebody offered him a bite.

           “Nah. Too late. Homework due tomorrow. Left it too long, you know? I tried to get it, but none of the answers turned out right. Secondary’s pretty hard, and this year is A-levels.”

           “So you summoned a demon.” At least the candles were scentless.

           Olla shrugged. “Hey, dude, desperate times.”

           Dipper stared at her. Olla didn’t know desperation—but she would, he knew, because he saw her in five years, just shy of twenty-four years old and homeless as England suffered its worst economic downturn in two centuries, and she starved on the street with the other homeless people until she tried to interrupt a scuffle between two people over a discarded slice of pizza, thin and sad and two-days-in-the-snow, because then one pulled a knife and stabbed first her in the gut then the other in the throat and she laid there, bleeding out and wishing that—

           “So, you know,” Olla said, blind to his inattention. He shook himself out of it and concentrated. “I figured that great great whatever-greats gramps Cass did it, so why can’t I?”

           Dipper’s mood soured further. Not only was this  _Soos_ , but her ancestor was a  _Cassie_ reincarnation. Of course. Of course! What was next, her father was Candy? Mother, Pacifica? Maybe Stan was her brother! Ford her Uncle! Lionel could be her second cousin twice removed. Why not?

           “Like, I figure, a bowl of ice cream a question is a pretty good deal. They’re long questions. Nobody was really clear on how Gramps Cass did it—not like he kept a record, you know? Whaddya think, dude Alcor? Bowl of ice cream,” she held up the bowl in question, reaching back to her desk, “filled with like what, three scoops per question. I got like ten of the suckers, so that’s like thirty scoops. That’s  _so many scoops_.”

           Dipper blinked in interest. His stomach—kind of—gurgled, especially after days of no deals plus eating Torako’s sleep paralysis with 0 reward whatsoever. Maybe he could deal with Soos and his army of reincarnation relatives. “How big is the scoop?”

           Olla held up the scoop in question.

           “Holy shit,” Dipper whispered to himself. Olla nodded solemnly. Dipper stared at the bowl of the scoop, which was probably the size of his fist. Dipper could  _definitely_ deal with Olla and her probable army of reincarnation relatives. Especially for Soos. Soos was great, whatever reincarnation, even if he was maybe going to die at fifty flat, caught in a malfunctioning elevator that just wouldn't open, until she was so starved that she died on the way to the hospital.

           Dipper closed his eyes, and counted to three. Then he used the promise of a deal (tilted way in his favor, because that was like five, seven tubs of ice cream right there) to push the flashes of omniscience down. “What flavor is the ice cream?”

           Olla’s face lit up. Her eyes were wide, bright against her skin. “Oh dude, I’ve got the best flavors! Turtle Tracks, Loch Ness Mint, Platypus Sweet Potato, Cookies and Cream, you name it! We love ice cream. I mean, I’m gonna have to tell Mom that I used a bunch to summon you, but she’ll understand. Probably.”

           Not like Dipper was going to complain about parenting and listening to one’s elders in the face of a deal like this. “All right kid, shake it and you got a deal.”

           Olla grinned wide and stretched her hand out. Blue flames lit up their hands. Dipper felt that heady rush of a deal course through him, and shuddered with the force of it. It felt so  _good_. And it would feel better when he got his ice cream, so he held out a hand and gestured ‘gimme.’ “Payment?”

           Soos’s reincarnation laughed. She dragged a freezer bag out from under her desk and opened a tub of Platypus Sweet Potato. Dipper tracked her hand as she took the ice cream spoon and dealt him one, two, three heaping scoops of heaven. If heaven existed, Dipper was sure it would be ice cream.

           (more seriously, he sees himself with all the people he has loved, with Mabel  _and_ Mira, Henry  _and_  Lata, the same soul split into all the different faces it’s taken, and everything is good, clear blue skies in Oregon where the summer never ends, it never ends and nobody grows old, nobody suffers, and he is  _normal_  again, but Dipper knows that will never happen)

            “So lay it on me,” Dipper said, taking the spoon Olla gave him because eating with his hands has not been very well received in the Pines-Lam-Farkas household, “what do you need help with?”

           Olla reached over for her school pad, propped between two thick books that look well-loved, and turned it on. She handed it to Dipper, who held it between his thumb and index finger while looking at the question.

           “That’s easy,” he said after five seconds. “The first answer is the Lili’uokalani Sequence, named after Ilana Ming’s favorite historical monarch. There you go, answer given, write it down and we’ll go to the next part of the question.”

           “Not so fast.” Olla took out a physical pen and paper and settled into her chair, looking at him expectantly. “I don’t just want the answers. You have to explain. Ilana Ming made this sequence? What sequence is it? What does it do? Why do we use it?”

           Dipper stared at Olla. “You…” he said, “don’t need all that info to answer the question?”

           Olla rolled her eyes. “Dude, I know that. But, like, I need to remember it so the more I can connect it to, the more I’ll remember? I know my brain, you know.”

           He couldn’t help it. He laughed, smile a little too wide and laughter too reedy, but he did it anyways. “What’s your favorite subject then, kiddo?”

           “Like, books, of course. English lit. I mean, I dunno that I want to do it, like research it, for a living—teaching seems super cool though—but like, you looked around my room at all, dude? I guess ice cream is pretty distracting though, so you get a pass.” Olla waved one hand around as she spoke.

           Dipper looked around, and sure enough, there were books everywhere. Most of them were fiction, but there were a couple non-fiction scattered around. There were a couple of old Twin Souls books in the corner—but Dipper told himself they weren’t there, and there were plenty of other good books in the room that he could ignore the awful presence of the Hell Books. As it was, though, he was never introducing Olla to Torako. Never.

           Batoor, on the other hand, would benefit from an English conversation partner, so maybe Dipper should offer to get them in contact with—

           Dipper shut that thought down hard. Maybe he was making an exception for Soos and delicious ice cream, but that didn’t mean he was going back to everybody. Not yet. Not until he had everything figured out. Not until he figured out if it was worth it.

           (he thought of Bentley and Torako and hoped, really hoped, that it was)

           “All right then,” Dipper said. He swiped to a new note-taking tab and started to write out the sequence. “When Ming did her stuff, she was looking for a way to more smoothly integrate magics into technology…”

* * *

           It turned out that Torako was right about not having time to summon Dipper before Meung-soo came over at six thirty; they had just finished setting the table with all the food when Meung-soo showed up, nervous and fiddling with her jewelry.          

           “Come on in!” Bentley said, stepping aside and letting his aunt over the threshold. “We just finished everything, Torako’s really excited to meet you.”

           “I’m excited to meet her too,” Meung-soo said. “I’m sorry your other partner couldn’t make it.”

           Bentley swallowed down the disappointment he felt at Dipper’s absence. “It’s okay, he just ended up being busier than any of us expected. We thought he’d be back in town, but he’s not around.”

           “Oh,” Meung-soo said. She took off her shoes in the entryway, then stepped into the dining room. Bentley shut the door behind her. “What does he do?”

           “A little of everything, honestly,” Torako called from across the kitchen island separating the kitchen from the dining room. “He’s selling stuff right now I think? Honestly, he picked up the job so fast he didn’t have any time to tell us about it. Hi, I’m Torako, it’s nice to meet you! I’d shake your hand, but they’re wet so give me a moment and I’ll be right there.”

           Meung-soo laughed, one hand partially covering her mouth. She had a really nice laugh, Bentley thought. He felt a little warm and giddy, the emotions slowly pushing aside his worry and upset about Dipper.

           “I’ll do that,” Meung-soo said. She smiled at Bentley. “Where should I sit?”

           There were four chairs at the table. Bentley pointed at the one that wasn’t Dipper’s, and said, “Right there, if that’s all right! Can you eat with chopsticks?”

           Meung-soo laughed again. “Of course I can! Anjan grew up in Korea and insisted we be able to, even if Ma was Mexican and Mama was, in her words, a Jamaican-European mutt.”

           The grandparents again. Bentley kept smiling anyways. “Oh! Do your names come from any particular heritage?”

           “Korean,” Meung-soo said, standing by the chair. “But Soo-jan and I were raised Catholic, like Ma wanted. I eventually left the church, but Soo-jan practiced a little. Did Philip ever raise you in a religion?”

           Bentley shook his head. “No. He explained them to me whenever I was interested, and took me to whatever services I was curious about, but nothing was ever enforced. Torako?”

           “Buddhist, with a sprinkling of Islam from Dad and Christianity from Momma Mai. Don’t really do much of any except for watching the New Year’s broadcast from Kyoto, though. We’re not super religious.” Torako walked up to Meung-soo and stuck out her hand. “Torako Lam, nice to meet a relative of Bentley’s.”

           “Meung-soo Ellig,” his aunt replied, setting her hand in Torako’s. They shook hands. “It’s good to meet you too. I’m glad you’ve been there for Bentley; as a fellow introvert, I know it’s hard to make friends. Especially ones that last.”

           Torako shot Bentley a grin. “Well, I’m pretty hard to say no to. I was really persistent in High School, and I’ve tempered it a bit but I’m still hard to shake. Aren’t I, Ben?”

           “It’s true,” Bentley said. “Please sit down! Would you like anything in particular to drink? We’ve got some wine, or something non-alcoholic if that’s more to your tastes.”

           “Non-alcoholic if you don’t mind,” his aunt said. She sat down. “Do you have some tea?”

           Bentley thanked whatever power that was out there (that wasn’t demonic) that they had thought to pick up a bottle of barley tea. “Yes, actually. Torako?”

           “Water! What’re you getting?”

           Bentley flicked her shoulder as he passed her on the way to the fridge. He pulled out the tea, then reached into a pocket in the right that cooled rather than chilled, and withdrew a bottle of white wine. “Well, I figure that since I’m not on call tonight, I can have a glass.”

            “You’re a little shit,” Torako said. Bentley laughed and pulled down two regular glasses and one wineglass. “Really,” she continued as Bentley poured their drinks, “I should be the one running away. Bentley looks sweet, but he’s a vicious bugger.”

           “Oh?” Meung-soo said. “I wouldn’t have guessed that!”

           “I live with Torako and Tyrone,” Bentley said. He looked up and caught Meung-soo’s eye before cocking an eyebrow. “It’s a survival trait that was bred in me. I have to be nasty sometimes, what with the shenanigans I put up with.”

           “Yeah, we were pretty awful in undergrad, weren’t we,” Torako mused. She leaned on the table, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. The light from the fake window up above, reflecting weather from the sky outside, lit her up and surrounded her in a warm glow. It didn’t quite reach Meung-soo, but it glinted off her earrings and the metal hoops around her wrists, inlaid with wardic spells he didn’t know the meanings of. Bentley thought about the dusty art supplies somewhere in the office room’s closet. He thought about crafts, or painting, for the first time in ages. Maybe he would dig them out on Saturday or Sunday.

           “I think most undergrads are pretty awful,” Meung-soo said. “They’re still children. Just…transitioning into more responsibility.”

           Bentley picked up all three drinks in both hands. “Not that graduate students are that much better. Look at Torako; she’s still in school.”

           “Hey, I’m better!” Torako protested, taking her water from him. Meung-soo reached over to do the same, and Bentley sat down.

           “Says the woman who tried to keep my face red the entire time we were at the grocery store today,” Bentley said. “Starting with penis jokes and not really straying outside that realm of humor.”

           Meung-soo choked. Bentley felt embarrassed for a moment for letting that out, and Torako guffawed. “You’re doing plenty fine for yourself there!”

           “Shut your face,” Bentley muttered. “You’re stupid and your opinion doesn’t count.”

           “So,” Meung-soo said as Torako stuck out her tongue. “What’s for dinner? It looks delicious.”

           Bentley praised his aunt for her diversionary tactics. But not out loud, because he’d embarrassed himself enough for one evening. “I did a few dishes! There’s cucumber salad, and tomato with mozzarella drizzled with soy-sauce, steamed sweet-squash sprinkled with cinnamon, fish-chicken pinapple-ginger stir-fry with noodles, and then fruit dessert afterwards.”

           “I can’t say I’m much of a vegetarian,” Meung-soo said carefully, side-eyeing him with an expression Bentley found hauntingly familiar but was unable to place on her face, “but I won’t say no to a good meat dish, and it looks  _very_ appetizing.”

           There was silence for a moment. Meung-soo turned bright red, and then Torako smacked the table twice and pointed at Bentley. “Oooooh! OOOOH!”

           Bentley stared at Meung-soo. He mentally rescinded his praise of her. “Why would you do that,” he asked, tone flat.

           She buried her face in her hands. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said.

           “You’re my aunt,” Bentley realized in horror. “My aunt made a dick joke at me. Why is this my life.”

           Torako cackled louder. “You’re stuck with her! I love her already. Meung-soo, I love you. Can we keep you?”

           “I’m sorry,” Meung-soo said between her fingers. “I’m in a committed relationship, and while I’m flattered by the attention, incest and women aren’t…really my things.”

           Bentley wanted to slide under the table. This time, he covered his own face in horror, and tried to drown out the sound of Torako laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. He almost wished she would choke.

           At least Dipper wasn’t there, Bentley thought. It would have made things about ten times worse.

           After that, dinner passed in a manner that was less inundated with sexual innuendo, thankfully. The food was good, the company was better, and they were on dessert when Meung-soo asked Bentley if he’d be willing to see her off on Saturday.

           “Of course! Which port?” Bentley gathered all their dishes and set them on the kitchen island to be cleaned later. “Is it Hames Memorial?”

           “If that’s HMM, then yes. I’m set to leave at eleven, but with security and everything I need to be there by ten.” Meung-soo sipped at her tea. “We could meet up for breakfast, if that’s fine? All of us?”

           Bentley looked at Torako. “Does that sound good?” He was only dimly upset with the prospect of having to wake up early. It’s not like he could see his aunt every day, after all.

           “As long as I’m not called in to work, sure!” Torako said. She swirled the water in her glass. “I’ll put it down to a tentative yes.”

           “They’d better hire you after all of this,” Bentley said. He sat back down, held his wineglass in one hand. “What kind of intern is on call?”

           “The demonology kind, where all my coursework is literally this internship,” Torako said. “But yeah, I’d be pretty salty if they didn’t at least offer, with this last case especially. I hope they pay overtime. I keep forgetting to ask.”

           “When do you graduate?”

           “Mid-may, thankfully,” Torako said. “I’ll be so happy when I’m actually employed. Sure, I get some insurance through the school, but job insurance is like ten times better. Just another month! I can do this!”

           “Good luck then!” Meung-soo said, smile wide and eyes creased shut. “Let me know the date and I’ll make sure to send something. Are your parents coming out?”

           “Of course they are,” Torako said. “They’re getting a hotel, but they’ll be there for the ceremony and it’ll be great!”

           Bentley knew that another thing that would happen was Torako’s parents pestering her about coming home, about how there were plenty of demonology jobs in the CIF, even if that included listings not on Minte de Daos. It was safer there. Demonology laws were tighter. She never could explain that that’s why she couldn’t go home, that she didn’t want to go back. Bentley…wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

           “I’m so glad,” Meung-soo said. She opened her mouth to ask something else, then looked at Bentley and her expression shuttered. Bentley could guess what the question was, and was relieved when she changed the subject. Torako’s parents might have come out for him last year, but it hadn’t been the same. “Oh, I’m sorry, what time is…”

           “8:30,” Torako said. The light above had dimmed halfway through dinner, prompting their lights to slowly turn on. “Busy night?”

           “I just have a very early meeting tomorrow,” Meung-soo said. She stood up. “If it’s not too rude of me…”

           “Of course!” Bentley said, standing up as quickly as he dared. “You’re here on business, you don’t have to feel obligated to spend all your time with us. Really, meeting you has been…it’s been so nice.”

           Meung-soo stared at him, almost like she wasn’t seeing Bentley. Then she smiled, eyes soft with heartache, and reached out to hold his cheek, the bracelets sliding down her arm. He let her, a little stunned.

           “Thank you, Bentley,” she said, softly. “It has been my pleasure as well.”

           He smiled back as she dropped her hand. “I’ll see you Saturday, though! We’ll say goodbye then.”

           Meung-soo stepped back and laughed a little. “Of course! I’m sorry for being so sentimental and silly. We’ll see each other again.”

           Bentley and Torako saw her out the door, then retreated to the kitchen to do the dishes. They spent the first few minutes in silence, bodies moving around each other on autopilot, comfortable in their spaces and comfortable with the routine of cleaning.

           It was when they were halfway through dinner dishes, Bentley drying the serving bowl they had used for the cucumber salad, that Torako said, “I like her.”

           Bentley grinned at Torako. “Right? She’s really nice. She’s trying.”

           “What has she said about Philip?”

           Bentley set the bowl on the counter. “Not a lot, and nothing one way or the other. Apparently, they disagreed about some stuff after Mom died, and that’s why there’s been radio silence on her end. Anyway, most of it’s been about my mom, and some about my grandparents. Her parents.”

           “The ones you never met,” Torako said. She set a few sudsy spoons in the sink for him to rinse off. “The ones who never sent you like cards or anything.”

           “Yeah.” Bentley shrugged. “But I think she loved them, and they loved her, so of course she’ll talk about them. She really loved my mom too.”

           Torako hummed. “You think that’s why she got in contact with you?”

           Bentley laughed a little. “I don’t have to ask to know that’s why.” He dried the spoons, opened the cutlery drawer, and set them in there. “But…I guess that doesn’t mean I’m  _not_ glad to meet her.”

           She didn’t say anything back to him, just bumped her hip into his and kissed him on the top of his head. “I’m happy then,” Torako said. “I’m happy for you as long as you’re happy.”

           They continued to clean in silence, broken only by the occasional, off-tune strain of hummed song from Torako. When she was just finishing up, Bentley said, “I…I can’t say I don’t wish I had somebody of Dad’s, though, you know?”

           “I get that.” Torako reached over with sudsy hands and rinsed the last dish before giving it to him. “But, I guess if nothing else—you have us? You have me. And Dipper, when he comes back.”

           Bentley swallowed. “If he comes back.”

           “He will,” Torako said. “Even if I have to summon him and drag his ass back here myself. Which we’re doing tomorrow night, remember? After we check all the wards.”

           “All right.” Bentley took a deep breath, and tried to push any fears about Dipper’s nastier tendencies out of mind. “All right, tomorrow.”

           “Also, speaking of wards, just of a different flavor,” Torako said, reaching over him to snag the pile of plates, “do you know what the ones on her bracelets were? You saw them, right?”

           “I keep forgetting to ask, or remembering at a bad time,” Bentley said. He handed Torako the bowls, watched her stretch to set them on the shelf. “If I had to make a guess, I’d say they were memory enhancers?”

           “You can read wards?” Torako’s eyebrows shot up.

           “Oh no,” Bentley said, shaking his head and holding his arms up in an ‘x.’ “No, I can’t. Meung-soo just mentioned how her memory was much worse than my mom’s, but she kept remembering things I’d said about sigils even though that’s not her field at all.”

           “Makes sense,” Torako said. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “That does mean you need to be even more careful about what you say around her, though. If she’s augmenting her memory with a wardic spell, then who knows what she remembers?”

           Bentley nodded. “Yeah. I like her, but…” She hadn’t even met Dipper. He wasn’t sure yet that he would ever introduce Meung-soo Ellig to Alcor the Dreambender.

           “All right then, good talk, good talk,” Torako said, patting him on the back. “What should we do tonight? Watch a couple movies? Make some nifty new shirts that we can throw in Dip’s face when he comes back?”

           Bentley dimmed the lights in the kitchen as they moved to leave it. “Well, who says we can’t do—”

           Torako’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and answered the call before it had even rung a second time. “Torako, what’s up?”

           Bentley leaned against the kitchen island and watched her expression shift from serious to shocked to determined.

           “That’s—okay, right, I’ll be right over, Officer Nathan. Do I need to—got it, it needs to be broken. Salts? You have all the materials? Right. Right. See you ASAP.” Torako hung up and moved to the front door, calling over her shoulder as she went. “They found proof of a victim, relocated the poor kid to demonic curse-breaking in the hospital general. They’re going to need all the help they can get, because it sounds like a doozy.”

           “Kid?” Bentley asked as she pulled on her jacket.

           “Yeah. What fucker would do that to a kid? Seriously?” Torako turned around and gave him a short kiss on the cheek. She went to leave, but at a sudden, chilling thought, he pulled her back and pecked her on the lips.

           Torako blinked in confusion. “Hey, what’s that for? That’s rare. You usually don’t like that.”

           “I just love you,” he said. “I just…be safe, okay?”

           “Hey, I’m not tackling this on my own,” she said, ruffling his hair. “It’s in a contained area with a whole bunch of other people working to solve the problem.”

           “I mean, if they were nasty enough to go after a kid, who knows what they’d do to the people in charge of the investigation? They’re still out there.” Bentley zipped up her jacket, pulled her close. “Just come home, okay?”

           She hugged him tight. “I will. I’ll keep an eye out and tell the others to too, okay? I love you.”

           “So much.” Bentley whispered into her jacket. Reluctantly he stepped back. “Okay. Do your job, even though you’re just Intern Torako Lam.”

           Torako saluted. “Aye Aye, Head Practitioner Farkas! Reporting to duty!” She winked at him, kissed him on the forehead, and then was gone.

           It was just shy of nine o’clock. Bentley looked at the clock, then at the television set, then at the bedroom. The house was so dark. So quiet. Too quiet. Bentley reached over, and locked the door behind Torako.

           He made himself a hot cocoa, drank it while watching knitting tutorials. He finished them. Then, he washed the mug, showered, changed, and went to bed early with his nightlight on and curled up under the covers on a bed that felt too big for him alone. Bentley slept.

* * *

           Bentley dreams. He dreams that Dipper comes home, normal, all smiles and laughter until he reaches Torako, and then suddenly she is on the ground crying, her arm ripped off at the elbow instead of just broken. He dreams that Dipper opens his mouth, wide, wide,  _wide_ , darkness in its maw and Bentley cannot stop Dipper from swallowing Torako whole. Dipper keeps laughing, and when Bentley hits him, demands to know why, why,  _why_ , he turns to Bentley and runs a razor-sharp nail along the wide contour of Bentley’s cheek.

           “B̖̫͊̽́e͑̉̂̄̿̎c̸̞̔̔ͨͤͪ̊̓à̛̜̙͓͕̜̓̀ͣ̾̌ü̫͇̦͎͍̪̒ͬͬ͡s̻̻̻̮̫e͆̇ͪ͠ ͯ̈y̮̯̙͉͓̯͚͐̾͋̌o͍̥͇͔̅ȕ’͐r̨̹̫e̦͉͖̱̭̜͗ͅ ̖̣̪̽͋ͧ̑ͭ̈́m̳̮̦̤̰y̒ͯ̓̍҉̟͙͔ ̞͉̪p͎̮̔̋̄ͦ̊ͫ͞r͛̅̓ͭ̂̔e͖c͈͈͈ͥ̋ͩ̐͟iͭ̿̿̿͏̗͉̲̙o̴ͧ̿̉̌͆͐ͤú̹̾ͤ͊ͨ͛͜s̳͌͐ͤ̃ͮ̚͡ ͚̜̬̰͓̒̌͂M̺̜͙̬͜i̛͚͔z̿͌a͈̜̟̟̘̚r̼̣̠͎͂̀̃̿ͭ͛̏,” Dipper says, in a crackling croon. “A̶̷n̕d͝ ̶y̡͟o͝͝u̷͝ ͏a̡͏re͜ ̛m̨̡͏į͜͝ņę,̵҉ ͢mine,̶͜ M͍̫͓̪̜̟̼͕̝̄̽ͫ́̔ͭ̍̈̿̏͆̑͆̋ͥ̐͌̚Ḯ̵̡̠̖̻̘̲̝̮̭̻̠̰̈͌ͯ̿͋͒ͦ̇͋̾Ṅ̵̗͖̟̫̪͇̬͓̤͓ͦ̅̓̍̉̽͑ͯ̕͠É̳͔̻̻̈ͧͧ̔͜͠͝.̴̧̰͍̮̬̦̒ͥ̎ͮ̌͠͞”

           Dipper leans forward and kisses Bentley, hard, his teeth shredding Bentley’s lips and swallowing his screams the way he’d swallowed Torako, his nails digging into Bentley’s shoulders as he struggled to get away and—

           Bentley dreams. He dreams that his father is at his desk, at home, is alive and well. Bentley walks forward and hugs his father from behind, love bubbling up in his chest, and whispers, “I missed you so, so much, dad.”

           His father continues working. He doesn’t even acknowledge Bentley is there, and the lack of attention makes Bentley pull back a little. “Dad?”

           “Oh, you’re finally home, are you?” Philip says. “Finally could be bothered to come back, then? How magnanimous of you.”

           “Dad?” Bentley steps back. Philip continues to work. “I—I came back as much as I could. It’s just—school was so busy, I was so busy. And I didn’t want Torako to pay for my ticket every time I came back, so I had to work. I’m—I’m sorry.”

           “Those are just excuses,” Philip says. He opens a book, the rasping of its pages loud in the abnormal silence of his office. Where was his music? Bentley always remembered music, but there’s just a loud buzzing sound in the back of his mind. “You were glad to be away from me. Away from your stupid dad who was obsessed with stupid things that alienated him from his family, from his wife’s family, from his friends and from his own son. I bet you were glad when I died.”

           “No!” Bentley steps back forward, his fists clenched. “No, I—I could never be happy about that! I was heartbroken. I still  _am_ heartbroken! Dad, I  _love_ you!”

           Philip finally turned around. He smiled at Bentley, eyes flat and cold behind his glasses, flickering with static and without reflection. There are orange lilies sprouting from his chest, bright, brighter than anything. “Oh, Benny-boy,” he said. “Don’t lie to yourself. You know better.”

           Bentley opens his mouth to refute, to say that he really, really does love Philip, but—

           Bentley dreams. Bentley stands in front of Torako and Dipper, who are holding hands, staring down their noses at him. They’re frowning, like him being before them is an unpleasant surprise.

           “Guys?” Bentley asks, voice shaking. He doesn’t know why, but Dipper—Dipper makes him remember nightmares of being kissed, of his desires being ignored and his fears being dismissed—and Bentley steps away from them both.

           “What did I ever see in you?” Torako asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re not even pretty, and you’d never love me back the way I do you. You’d never give me what I want. Why did I even stick around?”

           “You stuck around for me, darling,” Dipper says, tipping Torako’s face towards him. “I had to stay around my Mizar, so you stuck around for me. I’ll give you what you want. I’m pretty. I can even try to love you. Isn’t that so much better than that thing over there?”

           “Tora? Dipper?” Bentley feels himself crying. “What are you saying? Why are you—”

           “We’re not saying anything you don’t deserve,” Dipper says. He looks at Bentley with accusing eyes. “You can’t live up to the Mizar name. You’ll never live up to it—you’re not as outgoing as her, you’re not as vivacious, you’re not as colorful or bright or anything. You’re not even the right  _gender_ ,” he sneers.

           “That doesn’t matter, though!” Bentley says. “You told me, it doesn’t—”

           “You’re not Mabel,” Dipper cuts over him, smooth like plasma through steel. “You never will be. At least Torako is Torako to me. She’ll always be Torako to me, won’t you darling?”

           “And you’ll always be Dipper,” Torako says, running the pad of one finger down the side of his cheek. She ignores Bentley, and Bentley can’t decide if that’s better or worse than the absolute derision in her gaze earlier. “My Dipper. My Alcor. I’m so much stronger than him, so much more outgoing. I can be your Mizar, if you want.”

           Dipper purrs, low and dark, and holds Torako closer. Her eyelids flutter lower, half-mast, in a way that Bentley has only seen when she’s playing chicken with Dipper and never for long. “Oh, Torako—I wish you were Mizar. Then I would never have to put up with that thing.”

           Bentley takes a step back as they start to kiss, then another, his heart in his chest as they shut him out entirely. “Guys?” he asks, except his voice is so small he can barely hear it. “Guys?” He—

           Bentley dreams. Bentley does not wake.

Bentley didn’t wake.

* * *

           The ceremony was long, and vicious. Alû’s claws were sunk deep in the kid, a young cyclops (Ethan, his name was Ethan) whose parents had no shady past and no known enemies. It took Torako, Officer Pillage, and Officer Hsiksa five hours to break the connection, and another half hour to make sure that nothing of its influence was left on the child. He would be traumatized for a long time, and Torako sat with him while his parents and the police talked therapists, talked PTSD and potential sleep-deprivation disorders. Ethan couldn’t do more than shake and stare at nothing, but Torako made sure that she was holding his hands, that he had a physical presence nearby to know that he wasn’t alone.

           He was only nine years old, and Torako was so, so angry, and tired, and frustrated with how reactionary everything they did was. She kept thinking, on the commute home, of ways they could have been more proactive: paired with nonprofits or government agencies to strengthen anti-demon wards, issued pamphlets to families and community members on recognizing the signs of demonic sleep paralysis, anything. More stringent patrols to capture the cultists, stronger penalties for summonings of this nature, more collective responsibility on the part of citizens. Anything.  _Anything_.

           It was almost three AM by the time Torako got to their apartment. She opened the door—odd, Bentley hadn’t locked it?—and slipped off her jacket. Then the hair on the back of her neck, on her arms stood up on end, and she froze. Slowly, she thumbed on the flashlight application on her phone, and pointed it up at the corner formed by the ceiling and the far wall.

           There, Bentley’s sigils were ash-black, dead, stark against the white paint behind them. Torako inhaled deep and sharp, because  _those should be invisible_. That they weren’t meant the sigils had been broken. That they weren’t meant that something had gotten in, something not-Dipper, something demonic, but  _what_ could have gotten—

           Magical creatures had been disappearing. The cultists had used those creatures as sacrifices to summon Alû once. They were still out there. There was literally nothing,  _nothing,_  stopping them from summoning Alû again. She could hardly breathe. She dialed Officer Nathan and put him on loudspeaker as she began to slowly walk through the house.

           He answered on the third ring. “Torako? What are you calling me for, was there a complication with—”

           “Officer Nathan,” she said, noticing how high her voice was but not caring. “Officer Nathan, my apartment was broken into and the sigils are  _black_.”

           Officer Nathan was quiet for a moment, and then—“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck. Okay. Was Bentley home? Was Tyrone?”

           “Bentley was,” Torako said. He wasn’t on the couch. Wasn’t in the kitchen. She moved back to the bedroom, where the door was closed and it was  _never completely closed_ , she was so scared.

           “If it was Alû, it will fine, you can pull him out of it—”

           “Officer Nathan, I think  _somebody was in my home_.” Torako’s breathing was harsh. She reached out to open the door, but didn’t want to just in case—“The bedroom door is shut, it’s never shut, never, not when Bentley goes to sleep because his print is coded not to, what do I do,  _what do I do_?”

           “Take your sleeve and open the door,” Officer Nathan said. “I’m coming over. I’m staying on the line, but I’m sending a message for the others to convene at your place.”

           “Okay,” Torako said. She could feel herself starting to cry. “Okay, I’m opening the door.” She slid the sleeve of her jacket over her hand and pushed the button to open the door. It couldn’t read her finger, so it just—opened. No silly pre-programmed fanfare, no slow-motion, nothing.

           The lights flickered on. The room was empty. The bedsheets were mussed up, the nightlight was on, but Bentley wasn’t there.

           Bentley  _wasn’t there_.

           “Torako? Torako, is he paralyzed?”

           “He’s not here,” Torako said, voice shaking. She couldn’t stand. She dropped to the ground, stared at the empty bed. “He’s not here. He’s gone, he’s gone Officer Nathan, he’s  _gone_.”

           “What do you mean—”

           “He’s not  _here_!” Torako said, voice shrill and loud. “I fucking mean he’s  _not here at all_ , there’s nobody here the house is empty except for me!”

           “Did you check the other rooms in the house?” Officer Nathan asked. “Check the bathroom, the office, he might be there—”

           “The lights would be on and they’re not, they’re not, they’re not he’s gone Officer he’s  _gone!_ ” She was crying, crying fuck she never cried she  _hated_ crying.

           “Torako, I know you’re scared, we’ll be there soon. Just—stay as calm as you can, stay with me Torako, stay with me.”

           She couldn’t. Torako dropped the phone onto the ground and held her face in her shaking hands, and tried to control her breathing. But she couldn’t, and by the time Officer Nathan found her, she was bent over, forehead to the ground and hyperventilating into her own hands.

           Bentley was gone.


	6. Filly has a Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer Nathan has a bit of trouble, Torako comes to the rescue, Dipper finds out about Bentley, and Bentley?  
> He dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shouldn't be anything to warn about this chapter? Lots of emotions. Bentley's nightmares aren't graphic, but his mental state does devolve a little. Have fun :D

**Chapter 5: Filly has a Very Bad Day**

            Torako spent the next day, night, and half the day after alternatively sleeping and crying at Officer Nathan’s apartment. Then, heart still heavy, eyes red and nose stuffed full, she willed herself to get up. Then, after she managed to do that, she forced herself to make dinner and stop being such a burden.

            “Sweetheart,” Hepsa said when Torako brought her dinner, her knitting falling off her iron nails, “you didn’t have to! I was going to call in for food. You need your rest.”

            “And you need yours,” Torako said back. She straightened the jacket Bentley had sigilled for her, back in her cult hunting days. “Besides, you’ve put up with my caterwauling for the past what, thirty-six hours? And fed me? It’s fine.” She set the tray down on Hepsa’s lap, then sat in the stool next to her.

            Hepsa frowned. It was intimidating, and Torako couldn’t stop herself from squirming and glancing away at the reinforced closet doors.

            “They’ll find him. It will be okay.” Hepsa reached out, and Torako obediently held her rough hand, slightly cool to the touch from the denseness of Hepsa’s skin.

            Torako swallowed and closed her eyes. They stung. She was sick of crying, but it just wouldn’t stop. She wanted Dipper. She couldn’t have Dipper unless she went home. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted Bentley back, and Dipper there, and she had no access to either of them.

            If Dipper had been around more this last week, she couldn’t help but wonder, would Bentley still be at home? She pushed the thought aside as soon as she had it, not ready to face the idea.

            Hepsa squeezed her hand, lightly, careful of Torako’s relatively fragile skin. It reminded Torako of Dipper, and she clenched her teeth to stop herself from turning back into a saltwater fountain. “They _will_. You have to have faith.”

            Torako laughed. At least, she tried to; it came out like the dying squeak-crackle-sigh of a Timber-Tinder-Sprite. “That’s all I have,” she said. It was mostly the truth; she knew Bentley wasn’t dead. If he had died, Dipper would have…

            Would he have told her, though? Torako pinched the bridge of her nose and breathed in again. Knowing that idiot, he probably would be too guilty to tell her. At least she’d know if Bentley died within a few days afterwards; Dipper would tear whoever did it apart, leaving such a bloody mess that it would be all over the news.

Fuck. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want that, they couldn’t have that. If Ben died—Ben being gone was bad enough, but if Ben died, violently, Torako thought maybe Dipper would die a little too. He would die enough that he wouldn’t be _him_ anymore for a long time. Long enough for Torako’s life to pass, and another after that, and another after that. She was a demonologist. She knew the trends.

Hepsa rubbed her back, pulled her close. Torako didn’t know when she’d moved the tray of food out of the way. “I know it’s hard,” Hepsa said. “But Bentley will come back to you. They’ll get him back. _You’ll_ get him back, you and Tyrone both.”

She’d told Hepsa, Officer Nathan, everybody who asked, that Tyrone was on a trip. That she couldn’t reach him; he’d gone into an area without service, and that she’d try to contact him as soon as possible. But Torako had let them handle talking to Bentley’s work, and after that his aunt—she couldn’t face it then. She still couldn’t.

Apparently Meung-soo was still leaving the next day. She had offered, Officer Nathan said, to stay for Torako, but Torako just. She felt like sleeping so that she had the smallest, tiniest chance of getting up the next morning and finding her boys in the apartment, where they belonged. She didn’t feel like mourning with a near stranger, no matter how nice she was. So she said no, and Meung-soo Ellig didn’t cancel her return ride home.

And now Torako was crying again. Great. Fantastic. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was dehydrated before the weekend was through.

“You will,” Hepsa crooned, though it was more gravelly than a croon should be. Torako was laying on the bed, somehow. A sudden wave of derision and self-loathing overtook her—why should she be sitting still, doing nothing, when Bentley was out there somewhere suffering—and it took all she had not to shoot off the bed right away. Instead, she took a deep breath, and gave Hepsa a hug.

“Okay,” Torako said. She took another deep breath, in and out, like she did sometimes with Bentley when it got to be too much. The realization hurt. It was also a piece of him. She held it close. “Okay. I will. You’re right. I will.”

She needed to get up. She needed to move. Torako gave Hepsa one last hug, and shimmied off the bed, which ow, was so much harder than the couch. She would die sleeping on this bed, and she would die sad.

“Where are you going?” Hepsa asked, concern around the set of her mouth. She didn’t restrain Torako, though; just let her stand.

            “Who said I was going anywhere?” Torako asked. She wiped her eyes, hard, with the heels of her hands and sniffled a little. In, out. In, out.

            Hepsa crossed her arms and stared at Torako. Torako fidgeted, then grinned nervously. “Okay, yes, you’re right, okay. I just…I need a walk. I need to move. I can run down to the grocery store and grab, I don’t know, ice cream?”

            Hepsa stared a little longer, then nodded. “All right. I’ll hold you to that. There’s money on the—”

            “No no no no no,” Torako said, holding up one hand. “No. I’ve mooched off you and Officer Nathan for long enough. I can buy my own ice cream. I’m an intern paid a decent salary.”

            “Are you sure—”

            “Absolutely sure,” Torako said. “I have money on me. I can get the ice cream. If I’m not back in an hour, tops, you know to call the cops.”

            “I’ll call them on the second,” Hepsa warned, relaxing back into her pillows. There was only a little give. Torako straightened her spine at the thought of sleeping with those, and her back cracked a little. “So let me know if you’re running late.”

            “Will do, promise,” Torako said, backing out the door. She watched Hepsa drag her tray of dinner onto her lap, and thought of her own on the kitchen counter; she’d eat it later. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

            “Go,” Hepsa said. “Bring me one with little copper shavings, in the specialty section.”

            Dipper kind of liked copper shavings too, sometimes. It was never a good sign when he did, but he still liked them. Torako smiled wide, even if it felt a little plastic to her. “Gotcha in one, Hepsa! Later, gater.”

            Hepsa waved, and Torako turned to head down the hallway, glancing at the pictures of Hepsa, and Nathan, and their families. The smile fell from her face, but like she told herself, ice cream would help. Ice cream and moving around was a good first step to getting her feet back again so that she could actually start getting Bentley back. She would get him back. She would.

* * *

            Bentley dreams.

            He can’t remember how long he has been dreaming, only that he is, and that he is afraid, and that seconds pass like hours, that hours pass like years, or maybe it’s the other way around and time has no meaning, anymore. If he closes his dream-eyes, he finds them open. If he covers his ears, he finds his hands down by his sides. He can only watch, and listen, and know that everything that feels real, that doesn’t feel real, is all fake.

            It’s hard to do that under the still phantom, but growing, sensation of being eaten alive. He screams, and the noise comes back hollow to his ears. He clutches himself hard enough to turn his knuckles white, but can barely feel his nails in his arm. He blinks, and strains his eyes so much the pain is acute, but there is nothing. He can feel himself unravelling, his mind pulling apart. He clutches it, but feels powerless, helpless, against the weight of nothingness.

            He dreams.

* * *

            Officer Nathan called her five minutes from the grocery store. Torako fumbled with her phone, then held it up to her ear. “What’s up Off?”

            Silence.

            Torako felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She dipped into the space between crowds at the juncture of two shops, and spoke at a lower register. “Haha, get it? It’s like, Officer, you know, but you’re supposed to not be working anymore so you’re Off, right?”

            Nothing. Two seconds, three, Torako held her breath, and then—a grunt, distorted by static, and the rasping clang of a metal bat against brick. Maybe most people wouldn’t know that noise, but Torako did, after a solid year of hunting with Mizar’s infamous weapon. Torako swallowed down most of the fear that rose up in her, sharp and barbed with grief, but her hands still shook as she navigated her phone to the ‘track user’ function she and Officer Nathan mutually enabled in their third month of working together. “Just in case,” he’d said.

            Just in case had probably been meant for her, not him, but Torako wasn’t going to split those hairs. She started to track Officer Nathan’s phone to a few blocks away.

            She dodged a couple of families, keeping up a one-sided conversation while banking on the supposition that she’d been muted. The line was still active. She heard Officer Nathan rasp something out, a growl, but she couldn’t distinguish the words. Then an unfamiliar voice spoke up, and she needed to be there _now_. “Haha, yeah,” she said, slipping into a thankfully abandoned alleyway. Torako broke into a sprint, glancing at her phone every once in a while to make sure she was going the right way. Just a couple minutes later, she was close, and she slowed down to more of a stalk. She breathed light, through her nose, and listened.

            “…little dumbass, this one’s got no magic!”

            “You said we needed a big one! I’m low on power, I can’t tell anymore if they have magic or not!” Somebody with a shrill voice said. Torako crept closer, stepping over a discarded and trampled box. The voices were coming from the side-entrance to the next alley over, somewhere between the ends of a pet menagerie and a tech fix shop. Torako used to be amazed that alleys still existed, until somebody pointed out that not having a manual access through cities begged for magical and technical failure and thus utter, concentrated chaos. Dipper said alleyways helped disperse magical storms, which Torako was unsure as to the wisdom of, but she wasn’t a weather person or a magician. She was just a demonologist.

            “Be quiet, dimbolts,” a third one hissed. Torako side-shuffled past a couple of alley rats—one was bright purple, must have gotten into some color-change powder at the shop a few blocks down—and sidled up to the gap between the alleys. “Mkell made a mistake, big deal. Maybe it’s got enough magical residue on it to at least tide Alû over until we grab something else.”

            Just a demonologist was turning out to be a _really lucky career plan_ at the moment. Torako eyed the width of the gap, decided she didn’t like it, and looked up. If she could climb up the walls, she would—it would sure make for a fucking stunning entry. But there were no good handholds, and she didn’t have her special boots on. Pity. She missed jumping off roofs and beating up cultists.

            Well, if she couldn’t scratch one itch, she was certain to scratch the other soon enough.

            “Where’s the holly stake? Gotta make sure he’s out of order.”

            Officer Nathan moaned, like the rough squeal of stone on cement. Torako entered the gap without another moment of hesitation, but stepped slowly, carefully.

            “Stake’s in the bag. And damn, a lot of people have pissed this person off, whoever they are,” the shrill one remarked absentmindedly.  “Number three? This is getting serial.”

            “With this money, I don’t care,” the third one said. Torako slid up against the side of the wall closest to the voices, to lessen the chances of them seeing her.  She could hear the zip of a bag being opened. She breathed, in and out, and considered calling Dipper, but—no, Officer Nathan was there, he couldn’t know. This close, and he would know. She pocketed her phone, still recording everything going on, and waited.

            “Yeah, but two demons? Alû _and_ Xlixlis?”

            Torako controlled her breathing. She would not gasp. She was not one of the cliché heroines of her not-so-ironically-beloved-anymore books or teleshows. She was a _professional_. She had a _badge_. And a year of kicking ass mostly solo under her belt.

            The fact that the cult had summoned that other demon was frightening, surprising, and set Torako’s fingers tight into fists. She swallowed. How the hell did a cult manage to summon Xlixslis and not slowly bring the city down around them? Why did they even risk that?

            “Ah, found it,” voice one said. The bag zipped shut. Officer Nathan groaned again, and Torako very quietly slid out into the other alley. Alone. Unarmed.

            This wasn’t a bad idea at all, she told herself. Not at all, she thought, taking in the three figures standing around Officer Nathan. The one with the stake was short, with sandy hair and light complexion. There was a larger figure furthest away, with short fur growing from their elbows and knuckles, eyes set wider apart than most humans. And then there was another, of average height, built thin, hair cropped around chin-length and sporting a muscle shirt that didn’t do much for them in the absence of any muscle.

            Shorty was raising the stake when they saw her. Torako bent her knees and launched herself at them, grabbing the wrist with the weapon in her left hand before smashing the heel of her palm into Shorty’s nose with an audible crunch. Shorty screamed. She twisted their wrist around, sharp, hard, and it snapped. They screamed again, dropped the stake, and she kicked them away from Officer Nathan’s prone body.

            “Hi!” She said. She stood in front of Officer Nathan, catalogued where he was hurt: head, definitely, and he was holding his side like he’d been slammed by something. His fingers were broken. Torako remembered what the shrill one had said about being low on power, and guessed magic. “You’re kind of really breaking the law. A lot. You’re arrested. Come with me and there won’t be any more broken noses, or wrists, or anything. Nice deal, right?”

            “What the actual fuck?!” Shrill said, stepping away. Their fellow cultist, Hairy, stepped forward. They cut a pretty imposing figure in the dim lighting, Torako thought. She didn’t move.

            “I think you need to leave,” Hairy said.

            “I think you need to come with me, quietly,” Torako said back. She smiled, small, and kept her grip on the stake neither too loose nor too tight.

            Shrill tugged on Hairy’s sweatshirt sleeve. “You can’t let them _leave_ , they’ve _seen_ us.”

            “Oh.” Hairy tilted their head. “You’re right. Sorry. You stumbled on the wrong alley. You can’t leave.”

            Torako raised her eyebrows. “I’m with the police, shitheads.”

            They were both silent. Shorty’s screams died down to whimpers and whines. Torako didn’t stop smiling.

            “Then you double can’t leave,” Shrill said. They stepped forward, glancing at the bag to Torako’s left and back up at her face. “Triple, even. You gotta die.”

            “How intimidating,” Torako said. “‘You gotta die.’ Very fear-inspiring.” Underneath her, Officer Nathan groaned and curled up a bit. Torako glanced very quickly at the bat next to the bag, and took note of the giant dent that bent it forward about forty degrees. Right, yes, jail, after she shook them down for information. Which was hard to do, because her good-cop-bad-cop routine relied on Dipper as Very Bad Cop. But. But. It would be very satisfying to punch their lights out.

            “Guys,” Shorty moaned out, words slurred from their collapsed moan. “Guys. This is _number three_.”

            Torako blinked. “What?”

“What?” Hairy asked.

“You know,” Shorty said, tight with pain. They waved at their forehead. “Dumb colored bangs person’s friend.”

Torako stopped smiling.  

“Pathetic whimpering?” Shrill asked. “That person’s friend? Wow. Too bad the bodyguard wasn’t there that night!”

Torako could feel the fury rising up in her. It set her shoulders stiff, made her fingers tremble, tightened up her throat. _Pathetic. Dumb. Bentley_.

            “Oh shit,” said Hairy, the only one who seemed to be paying attention to her expression.

            Torako said, “You’re fucking right,” and swooped down to pick up the bat. The dent had caused a couple of sharp ridges to pop up, metal glinting in leftover light. Torako ran a finger over the ridge and sure enough, it tore the skin. She stuck the stake in her back pocket and held the bat in her right hand. It didn’t have the same weight as Mizar’s. “Now, that was pretty interesting information. You should tell me more. Like: where the _fuck_ did you _take Bentley_.”

            Hairy crossed their arms, tilted their chin up. Their expression was flat enough that Torako knew they were scared, or at least she hoped they were. “We’re not telling.”

            Torako smiled again, thin and showing the slightest edge of teeth. She swung the bat. “No, I think you want to tell me. I’m giving you a chance you don’t deserve, not after assaulting a child, not after taking my _best friend_ from me, not after threatening me and the entire world. No, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

            Shrill scoffed, and crossed their arms in solidarity with Hairy. “Wow, you sure think highly of yourself. Entire world?”

            “Torako, just…” Officer Nathan said, sounding woozy. “Run. Get help.”

            She should. She should be careful, call for backup, let the police handle things. But Torako was angry. Torako kept thinking about Ethan, the poor Cyclops boy. She kept thinking about Bentley, about his recurring nightmares and the absolute traumatic shitshow it must be to be stuck in one. She kept thinking about Dipper, with both Bentley _and_ herself gone, with nobody there to throw themselves into the dangerous position of voice of reason. As much as he shouldn’t rely on them so much, as much as he was growing to rely on others, she knew, she knew, _knew_ the entire country would go up in flames.

            She lived in the Californian Island Federation. She knew what happened when Alcor went out of control.

            “I’ll get help, Officer Nathan,” she said. Shrill was now breathing in a way that screamed magic. She couldn’t wait for them to try it. “It just might not be the kind anybody here likes, except me.”

            It was all she could do to keep her breathing steady, because her heart was racing and she was angry, angry, angry.

            Shrill made an abrupt gesture. Torako threw the bat over a spell that hit the air a centimeter in front of Tora, and grinned wider at the face Shrill made when the magic didn’t connect. She almost laughed when the bat smacked Shrill right in the face a split second later and sent them crashing into the alley wall.

            “So nobody wants to do the easy way?” Torako asked. She was met with silence. Hairy looked to be on the edge of rushing her, both their fellow cultists on the ground. She bared her teeth, lifted her finger to the circle sewn into the inside collar of her jacket, and said, “Hey, Dipdops, I’ve got some company you’d love to meet.”

* * *

            Bentley dreams.

            The dreams run together. He dreams that Torako hates him for being Mizar. He dreams that Dipper and Torako leave him after deciding he’s useless. He dreams that Philip realized how bad of a son he was, leaving his father all alone in that apartment and rarely ever coming home. He dreams Dipper devours him, hurts him, smiles wide and sharp the entire time he does so. He dreams that Dr. Fantino stands in front of him and drops a bouquet of orange lilies on his chest, hands burned, and says _This is why I strive to be as logical, as not-emotionally-driven as possible._ He dreams that Meung-soo catches him summoning Dipper, that she renounces him and says that he’s a disgrace to his mother’s memory. He dreams that a magical storm engulfs the country. He dreams Torako dies without him. He dreams, he dreams, he dreams, and as he dreams he unravels.

            Bentley is so tired of dreaming.

* * *

            By the time he was called by the familiar tug of his personal circle, Dipper was about five tense minutes away from checking in on Bentley. Maybe three. Dampened anxiety from that end wasn’t uncommon, so to say, but every time Dipper’d paid attention to his link with Mizar, it had been anxiety. Fear. But pushed down, dimmed, without direction, and that was a little concerning. The only thing stopping him from blipping out of the Mindscape was a) his short interaction with Soos’s mom (Ford, of all people) and b) it had only been a few days since he saw Bentley and Torako last, and c) Torako hadn’t notified him of anything yet. So when he felt the personal circle’s call, Dipper was out of the Mindscape like a shot—Torako had finally noticed what was up with Bentley.

             The alleyway was a bit of a surprise. As were the cultists, the two conscious ones staring up at him in blank horror.

            Dipper blinked. “You’re getting back into the bashing game now?”

            Torako ignored his question. He looked at her and flinched back, just a little, at the awful bruise-black radioactive-green splotches in her aura, at the pink shocks lancing through in a kind of tired _fear fear fear worry guilt fear._

            “Torako?”

            She smiled at the cultists. It was the nastiest smile he’d ever seen on her face, and everything screamed at him that something was wrong, very wrong. “So! Here’s the hard way. No easy way now. Sucks to be you! I was going to be nice, but you took too long.”

            Behind them, there was a gurgling choke. Dipper looked back, and froze at the sight of Officer Nathan staring at him. At him, eyes black and gold, ears pointed, claws filed to sharpness. At Alcor.

            Torako would never summon him in front of a friend who didn’t know. She had been so careful, especially after Philip’s funeral. He looked back at her. “Torako, what’s wrong?”

            Her eyes were flat. “Yo, Alcor, these three have some information in their heads they’ve decided not to part with. I can’t understand why! I want to make a deal with you for it.”

            Dipper noticed her worn hunting jacket, the cuffs frayed, the faded bloodstain on the right shoulder from when she was thrown into some rubble and landed the wrong way on the wrong thing. He noticed her pants, the ones that Bentley stole whenever he was sad and the ones that Torako almost never wore just in case Ben needed them. He noticed Bentley wasn’t there.

            “Torako,” Dipper asked, starting to float a couple inches higher, worry roiling around his gut in a mimicry of humanity, “where is Bentley?”

            She finally looked at him. She was so, so angry. “You know, I’d like to know that too. I asked them nicely, but they won’t tell me,” she looked back at the cultists, “where. They. Took him. So you know what? I’ll give you anything you want for that information.”

            “Torako!” Officer Nathan said behind them. Dipper stared at Torako, wide-eyed. He stared in at her, at her soul, so bright and warm and delicious and he thought about how it would feel in his hand. He could have it, just for some paltry information that he didn’t even care—

            Dipper paused. He looked at the cultists too. “You…don’t know where Bentley is.”

            “No.”

            “They do.”

            “I don’t know.”

            Dipper waited for the next words. When they didn’t come, he said, “But?”

            “But they’re the ones who took him,” Torako said. “Thursday night. They summoned Alû. And Xlixlis. And took Bentley away, and the wards were broken, and they called him _pathetic_ , Alcor, they called him _pathetic_.”

            She was breathing hard, like she was on the edge of a breakdown. Dipper stared at the three cultists. They hadn’t moved. Maybe they hoped if they wouldn’t do anything, he would forget they were there. Prey instinct, maybe.

            Torako didn’t know where Bentley was. Alû was involved. Alû, of nightmares. Xlixlis, chaos and shadow, so slippery it was hard for even him to find her. And these cultists were…

            “Torako,” Dipper said, pushing down all thoughts of blood, of soul, of limbs and years of life. “I want all the Moffios you have in the apartment. I know you’ve been stockpiling.”

            Torako stuck out her hand with a short nod, still staring at the cultists. He watched the fingers tremble against each other, numb inside. Then he reached, intertwined her fingers in his, and with a burst of blue the deal was sealed.

            Anger and fury overtook him. He didn’t let go of her hand, even when the flames vanished. He felt himself growing, felt himself make the alley grow dimmer, darker. The cultists finally tried to run—the two who were conscious—but he just made them stop in their tracks, trapped in their bodies like Bentley was undoubtedly trapped in his. Then he made them turn around and walk back, made it abundantly clear who was in control of this situation.

            “Now,” he said. “You’re going to spill e̤̳̤̩̜v͎͖͈̹̻͍͕er̫͢y͓͓t̗͔͖̹̞h̥͡i̥n͕̭g̳͔̰ ͎̙͔͕̪͈ you know. If you don’t, I’ll r̞̜ͭi̬̹̻͉̞̬̘̒͠p͍̲̥̞̈́ͮ͗̚͜ͅͅ ̝͊ ĩ͇̳̙̘̪̙̟́ͫͪṭ͔͈͓̹̮͗́ ̵͗ o͍͍̣̪ͬ͛͂ư̈͑̑̍ͤt͉̎ͯ̔̾̉̐ ̻͖̯̙̮͍͖͊̉ͥͮ̏̚̕ o̐̈̎͘f̷̟̜̭̞̞̒ͥ̆͂͌́ͪ ̥̅̾̒͌͗̿̚͢ y̘̲ͪ͊͗ͯͯͯo̓u̞̺̗͙̦͋̈r̹̱͉̺̆ͨ͆ͭ  ̧̮͎̼͓͎͛ͥ̒̽̉̾̚s̴͇̼̺ͩ͑̒͊̿̚k̓̉u̖̭͖̣͔͇͒͆̃ͭ͆̚͞l̜̙̺̖̆̐̒̐͑̇l̥͔̺͈̂̓ͣṡ̵͈̟̞.”

            “I want them to live,” Torako said. Part of him bristled at what came off as an order. The larger part of him listened. “I want them to live and I want them to regret and I want them to hurt.”

            “They could ruin you,” Dipper said. He thinks about Officer Nathan behind them, and wonders if Torako would be fine with some memory alterations. If she would make a deal for it, a small one, for candy. He wanted her happy.

            “Then make them not able,” Torako said. She gripped his hand tighter. Her voice shook. “I just want them to suffer.”

            One of them, the short one with the bloody nose, made a noise. Dipper stared at them—at her, at her, and he smiled, as wide and unnatural and sharply as possible.

            “I can do that,” Dipper said. He crooked a finger and the short one came closer, legs stiff and jerky. “N̢̘̫̟̼͍̠ͪ͊ͧͨo̠͖͈͟ẘ̸̤͈̜͙̹̯͍͊, I know that my friend here said you can’t do the easy way anymore, but it’s your l̨̕͝͠u̴̢c̶͠k̷̢̡y̸̨͜ ͟d͏a̵̵͝y̶͞͞! You have two options: the hard way, or the excruciatingly painful way. Which sounds better?”

            The short one—her name is Filly, she has a mother and father and a twin brother who works as a fast food manager, who she supports with her accounting job and she wanted more in life, Filly wanted more so she joined a cult and she’s always been a little apathetic about some things, so it was fine when they were sacrificing small stuff, like animals, and nobody human had died yet so it was okay. Not even that pathetic human they’d kidnapped a couple nights ago—as far as she knew, he was alive. She was fine, everything was fine. But the short one couldn’t even swallow, couldn’t cry, couldn’t move her mouth. Even if he let her, she’d be too scared to.

            Dipper patted her cheek, soft. Torako stood slightly behind him, stiff, a tree with shallow roots in the middle of the hurricane. She was unsteady. She hurt. So. So he had to do it fast, and he made a snap decision.

            “Oh, too bad, t̘̦̦͕͕̙̬͖͐͒̋̈̽͋͝i̼̭͇̙͒͞m̨̗͍̂̈̃ͩ͑ͧę͍̫̫̪̺̮͛̀́͆ͮ͑ͤ̕’̴̩͕̈́̉̾̚s̼̖͖̹͖͈̪͓̔̿̈́̏̓͗̚ ͧ͐̈͒̒̇͂҉̶̧̙̭̭̼̩̝̖u̮̭̹̳̝ͮ̓̈́̋p̡̡̨̩̺͈̝̓̑̂͋ͮ͑͑ͅ,” he said. “Plan B it is!”

            Then he reached into Filly’s head, his hand vanishing up to the wrist into her forehead, and _pulled_.

* * *

            Bentley dreams, he dreams, he dreams and dreams and dreams and dreams and when will it end, please just let it end please he doesn’t want this anymore, he’s so scared his heart has been racing for so long he’s surprised he isn’t dead    he wants to be                         no no that’s not what he wants, he wants, he wants—

            where's dipper

            where’s tora

where are they            where are they                        where are       they

where

 

he wants his friends

hes so scared

please

           

 

            Bentley dreams.

* * *

            They knew more, in the ten minutes it took for Dipper to harvest and sort through all the information the cultists had been hiding in their heads. They were trapped there, now. Unable to speak, unable to move. Maybe it would get better with age, but they could do _nothing_ to hurt another person ever again. They couldn’t hurt Bentley. They wouldn’t touch _a hair on Torako’s head_. Dipper had wanted to tie bricks to their feet, grant them the ability to breathe underwater, and then dump them over the deepest part of the ocean when he found out that she was next.

            He told her everything, which was:

 

Apparently, the cultists were paid by an anonymous person. Money for summoning Alû twice: once as a decoy, once for the target, which was Bentley Farkas. Money for summoning Xlixlis, with instructions to hide the presence of the target until it reached its eventual destination, at which point measures would be in place to keep unwanted eyes out. They summoned Alû twice, once with the decoy’s name—Freddie, the shrill one, had been frustrated with this one kid’s tendency to walk through their lawn on the way to school—and once with Bentley’s. Fuck yes Torako, kick Freddie. What a s̨h͜it̸h͝ea͟d͡. Anyways, the schoolkid had been easy for Alû to find, but they ran into a problem with Bentley: the demon couldn’t find him.

So, they contacted the client. The client didn’t raise a fuss. Actually, instead of demanding they find a location, the client got back to _them_ in less than a week with an address. No, they didn’t know who the client was, or how they got the address—the Farkas-Lam-Pines household was off the public registers, ostensibly because Torako was a police employee—and they communicated through a complicated set of proxies. No, they didn’t know more, Torako, not even if you punched them—okay, they deserve the punch, go for it.

Go for it again. No, Officer Nathan, this is not exce—look, I promise I won’t bite you, just keep resting against that wall. I need to—there’s more.

(Dipper didn’t want to say the next part, but he did)

Once they got Bentley out of the apartment—lifeless, whimpering, Alû’s grip tight on his mind—they took him to a store in the area. Then—the CCTV? Oh, they had somebody loop a minute’s worth of feedback everywhere they passed through. Yeah, that’s a security issue. Somebody on the inside. I guess your team needs to be looked through. So, back to the store. It’s a hardware store, I think Denny’s? Fun fact, they used to be a food chain before branching out and eventually losing the food part of the equation. It happened about two hundred, three hundred years ago? Only lasted so long because of a couple enterprising hobbyist demonologists. One of them called me, actually, I—

Sorry. I’ll get back on track.

Denny’s. They took Bentley to Denny’s, and grabbed a specialty order fridge out of the back. The specially ordered fridge was arranged through the client, apparently. They’d broken in and ‘stolen’ it once, but Naksha there is a Denny’s employee, and he was charged with hiding it in the back. They dragged the fridge to the back of a truck, hooked it up to a generator, and. Put Bentley in.

…I know Torako. I know that entering one is dangerous to sentient—I know that Ben doesn’t need more PTSD on top of what he already—Torako. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I—I should have been here, I should have stopped this before it started, I should have been there for you and Bentley, I—

I’m _not_ trying to turn this into a pity fest! Yeah. Yeah, I should have been here. I. I got scared, I—this isn’t the best time or place, okay? Don’t look at me like that, we’re in public, and the only reason this party hasn’t been broken up is that the cultists set up some fuc҉king҉ ͜ strong barriers to stop sound and magical signatures from getting out. So let’s wrap this up, okay?

That’s as far as it goes. They don’t know where the truck went, they don’t remember what it looked like aside from nondescript because there were some enchantments on the thing, they don’t know the client’s name, or the truck driver’s name, or the name of the person who commissioned the fridge or anything. They just found out today that you were the next victim. And if à̪͓̩ͭ̄̍n̴͓̺̳̘y̤͈̬̞̬͒ͮͫ͝ ̮̠̝̞̬ͨ̿̎͐̿̈́ͣ of them try to do anything to you, I will r̵̲͉͖͈̜̗̙͖̐͋ͭ̍ͭͪ̎į̜̫͖͎̜̰̯̇͂̇ͭp̧͔̖̭̙̩ͮ͗ͣ͠ ̨͎̬̫͚ͪ̓̃t̙̱̯͚͍͔̖̻ͦ͋̆ͥ̿̄͐͊͠h̴̭̠͂̆ͪ̃͐e͇̞̻̣̫ͯ̊m̷̼̖̓̽ ̵̰̠̉͛̏̅̔̾̿͗͢a͂̀̇ͧ͏̴̫͍̩̻̘̹̻p̢̭̰̳̳ͥ̊a̛͖̜̤̥̠̒̐̏ͮ͐́͞r̷̬̜̬̄ͯ̎̔ͭ̔͂ͬ̏t̬ͬ̏ͅ, te͠a̧r͘ thei͠r v҉er͏y͡ ṣ̸̤͖̥̪̦͋ͯ̔ͧ̍́͐̀͜͠ͅo̗͖̬̝̹͍̬̗͎̱̘̫͈͕̝̥̜ͤ̇̌͐ͬ͐ͥ̓ͫ͂̿͐̐̅̓ͮ͐̓͞ư̪̹̖̓̉ͫ̆͑̃̀̈́̎̎͑͞ḽ͖͖̮͔͇͖͔͉͈̪̩̫͉̖̍ͪͮͩ̕͜͝ͅsͩͮ̈͐͏̛͙̬͈͈̗̹̪͙͓̺̣̥͇̪̗̖̯̟̼ ̴̫͕͔̰̮̘͚̯̤̟̞̰̣͙͕̀̋ͬ̔̌ͯ̏͊̋͜ͅ and h̔̐̐ͭ́ͩ͑̄̔̋̍ͨͥ͗̏́͂̓̒̕͟҉̝̱̳̟͈͈̤̗̮̖̥̹̺͚̘̦ͅu̔͐͗ͮͪͥ̈̉́͏̡̬͙̻͉̖͍̮͖͉n̡̧̯̮͎͇͖̖͕͚̥͍̟̱̗̲̏ͬ̐̌ͨ͛͛̂͟͡͞t̴̢̘̜̟̥͕͇͖͚̻̫͖̥̩̮͎̰̯͎̳̏ͯ̓̽̊̽ͮ͛̚̚͘͘ ̦̹͕̬͙̪̟͊͛̋͌ͣ͂̑͛̃̀̏ͫ̆̾̓͗t̮̯̲̲̻̜̘͙̼͙̤͖̫̘̦̭̼̊̉ͦ̄̓ͯ͐̾ͩͮ̌̊h̸̨̨̯͎̱͖̦͓͕͓̲͚̯̔ͪ́̈̍ͧ̎ͯ͡͞ę̸̳͕͎̟̠̻̫̳̺͈̱͕̺̻̬̩̔̓͒̓͗ͮͩ̈ͭ͗͐̇̈͊̿mͥͭͩ̆ͦͥ͋̎ͤ̉̌ͨͬͭ̌͗̕͏̦̫̩̬̬͎͡ ̷̴̶̤̰̻̟͎̩̯̳͛͋ͤ͂̆ͫͥ̉ͪͪͪͯͫ́̅̏ͯ̉̉͘͡ͅd̴̢͚̻̰͇͐̔̊ͣ̇̿̌̕͡͞o͕͖̼̻̠͓͚̰̟͖͆͛̑̆ͮ̂ͨ̾̀̈ͧ̆͊͒͊̆̕͝͞ͅw̛̗̣̲̙̹͓͙͔͙̳̹̝̘͎̩͈͇̑̈́ͯ̋͞͡͞ͅn̷̡̨̹̘͓̪͔͈͙ͦͭ̓ͮͥ̋̃͌̎̎ͭͣ̽ͪ̈́̆ ̵̸̢̬̳̦̰̼̹̪̯̭̾͗̋͂ͥ́̑͂͛͘͡i̸̠̥͉͉̣̯̦̺̳͋̋̃̅͛̅̌n̸̵̵̩͈̙͕̲̦͉͓͙̞͚͇͍̱͈̊̆͆̍ͬ̏ͣ̈ͯ͑͗ͧͩ̉̈́̈ͯ̚͟͡ ̢̠̭͇͙̟̯̲͕̮͍̦̣̙ͫͦ̇͛ͥ̏̚͢ͅt͑̓ͯͧͭ̓̏͋ͣ͡҉҉̻͇̺̞͖̼̪̘̗͇̲͖̹̯͈̪͙̠͇h̉͑̇͑̉̿̒̈́͆̊̽̚͏̣̘̳̬̩̺̖͟ͅe̺͖̫̟͎̬̣̬̤ͥ̈͌̂͌͂ͭͬ͐̎ͩ͑̓̂͊̄͊͟͞ị̴͔̤̺̗͋͌̿͌̓́̋ͨ̾̾̂̍̉͑́r̢̢̛̩̞͕̹͍̱͇̹ͬ̈̈͗ͣ̌͟͟ —

Wait, say that again? Uh-huh. So why did they target you? Desperation. I’m surprised you’re talking to me, Officer Nathan. It basically comes down to the efforts to keep magical pets inside, and for magical persons to travel in groups of two or more. They were getting nervous. Alû took a lot of energy getting through Bentley’s sigils, and demanded more for Torako. I’m going to _eat_ that upstart shitt̨y͞ ̧l͟it̡t͞le d̢emon, who thinks they can take what is m̴͢i͟͞n̛̛͢͜e̷̶͡, they’re m͒̈́ḭ͎͎̯̳͉̇͊̿͌n̡̳̩̯̟̗̘̰ͮ̚e̸̿͛̇̓ͬ̆ and n̩͓̆̉ŏ̸̱̯̺͈̹̓͌t̯̱̹̟̜̻̺̤͒͑ͪ͞h̅̓̓ͨ͏͏̳̹͈̭̤̲͍i̸̷͉̜ͧ̐ͭ̈͑̑ͥ̈́̕n̨̧̥͇͍͉̪͖̈́̋̽̾̂̾̆͠g͈̭͙̺͎̻̓ͧͯͦͬ̏͑͂̕ ͪ͛́̏͂͊̅͒҉̨̮̟̠ wil͘l m̡ak̶e̶ t͏h͞at̨ ̵mi̵stake̢ ę̛̙̜̞̣͍̪̖̠̤̞̳͑ͯͨͦ͋̽̓̓́̄͒ͬ̽̆̇ͪ̚͜͝͡v̍ͣͧͪ͋͋ͧ́̐̄ͯ̑͌̉͂͌́ͦ͆͘͜͏̸̷̮̹͍̰̞͉̥̗̦̗̥̜̗̣e̴̵̩̩͈̗͕͇̬̗̩̲̠͍̬͋ͮ̂ͫ͂͊͐ͮͨͪ̊ͫ̏̉͋ͥ͟͝r̸̷̛͍̲̟͆̈͆ͦͦ͐̋̇ͥ̌͆̓ͬ͋ͅ ̻͙̥̥͓͔͖̳̩̙̹ͦ̆̑̌ͤ̿ͪ̐̎ͦ̏̋͜͞ą̪̯̦̺̖̟̮͐ͬ͐̎̿̈ͣ͘g̛̰̟̳̠̩̝̪͈̯͆̈̐̾̊̅̅̌̉ͭ̉̋͆̆͢ͅă̶̢̧̛̹͇̱͔̥̱͚̟ͤ̇̀ͨ̋͟ǐ̢̐͗̊ͨ͑͆̆҉͖͈͕̹̥̞͚̞͎̭̘̺̞̠̻͝n̟̗̦̲̏́ͭ͋̈́̃͢.

 

            : and then, Torako tugged on his ponytail to make him stop speaking because Officer Nathan looked ready to pass out in fear. She looked like shit, but there she was, making sure he was decently civilized in the face of people who were meeting him for the first time. People who recognized him for the very dangerous, highly volatile demonic being he was, thank _fuck_ there were still people with sense in the world.

            Then, Officer Nathan looked straight at Torako, and said in a quiet, rasping voice, “You can’t. I can’t let you stay on the force. Not like this.”

* * *

            Bentley is dreaming.

            Bentley is.

                        Is he? Is this

existence? If it is then bentley

bentley isn’t sure he wants to exist, not when dipper is

whispering in his ear, all the things he wants to do

how he wants to taste bentley’s soul

again, how      delicious

it would taste between his teeth

how bentley is a mizar

who     doesn’t deserve to be mizar

he’s too quiet

too sad

too serious

it would be better if torako was

and  bentley hears torako say

that she regrets ever talking to him

she wishes

she wishes she could have her parents back

in her life, that

just because bentley

doesn’t have his father anymore

doesn’t mean torako should have to live        without            hers

she has two

she wants them both

she doesn’t want bentley

anymore, if it was a                            choice                          between philip

and                  bentley            she would

she would

she

 

bentley feels philip behind him

feels his father

can’t turn around

he

he wants

he wants to see his father

he wants his father

father

father

papa

please

            bentley doesn’t want to           dream              anymore

            bentley doesn’t            want                to be anymore

 

but

 

 

            bentley is

            and he dreams.

* * *

            Honestly, Torako saw it coming.

            “So you really are kicking me out,” she said. She was drained. She was so tired. She wanted to lay down and sleep and forget everything, forget her rash actions (even if she had to save Officer Nathan) and forget the consequences (she had been so angry) and forget that Bentley was gone and they’d shoved him in a _stasis fridge_ —

            She wasn’t going to go there. Not now.

            “You have to understand,” Officer Nathan rasped, blinking slowly. They really needed to get him medical help. “I can’t. This job, with you, with him in your back pocket.”

            Torako laughed. She wanted to cry, but she laughed instead. “Yeah. A demonologist with Alcor the Dreambender in their back pocket? I’d muck things up. Throw the validity of my work into question.”

            Next to her, Dipper bristled. “Listen,” he said, “plenty of officers in the past have relied on my help, and none of their cases were ever—”

            “Maybe then,” Officer Nathan said, still looking at Torako. “But now? It’s barely been a decade and a half since incidents regarding the Dreambender have died down. I can’t let you stay, Torako.”

            Torako gave in to the impulse to sit down. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and tried to focus, tried to figure out what it was she was supposed to do. But her thoughts were a storm, scattered, incohesive, ripped apart and unsettled by everything. By Bentley’s disappearance and the situation surrounding it. By the cultists, their screams and their faces as Dipper tore memories out of their heads. By Dipper’s absence. By his presence. By Officer Nathan, the assault on him, and how he was now one of the very few that knew the truth about Tyrone. Torako felt like her mind was being pulled a dozen different directions, down a hundred different paths all at the same time. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t plan. All she could do was breathe.

            Dipper, apparently, was better at compartmentalizing than she was, and she felt a stab of frustration and anger. Dipper, who left. Dipper, who came back too late, who came back right on time. Torako, in her storm of thoughts, had the clear realization that she didn’t like being the one left behind, that she never wanted to be left _behind_ again.

            “What about her schooling?” Dipper asked. “This internship was her entire last year, what is she supposed to do now?”

            She heard Officer Nathan sigh. Torako didn’t care about the answer. At the same time, she wanted to cry at all her work, all her effort, gone in a rush of anger and desperation. “I…I don’t know. I can say that the disappearance of her partner has left her too distraught to keep up with the rigor of this internship. Torako has done good work, up until now, the school might make allowances. They might not.”

            She might not _graduate_. How the fuck was she supposed to explain that to her dads? Then she realized how stupid that thought was in the wake of Bentley being gone, and refocused on breathing. In, and out. In, and out. She would be calm, Torako would be calm, she _would be_.

            “So you won’t tell them, then,” Dipper asked.

            “I won’t lie in a court of law,” Officer Nathan said. “But I won’t volunteer the information. Not after…not after everything Torako has done for us. Me.”

            But not enough to let Torako stay. Not enough to make sure she could graduate, for sure. Not enough to—

            Torako pulled her palms from her face and looked at them. They were soft. So soft. She’d gotten used to desk work over the past year, gotten used to investigation and curse-breaking and everything that was the opposite of her gap year experience. She’d gotten soft. She’d stopped being so lonely. She’d started seeing school as important even beyond being near Bentley again, and now? Bentley was gone.

            Her mind snapped to one path. Bentley was gone. What reason was there to stay?

            “Right,” Dipper said, cold. “Of course. That’s the logical conclusion, after Torako has literally saved your life. Has helped directly solve four cases, or was it more? I can’t remember. Could you remind me?”

            Silence. Torako didn’t care, she was thinking, she could _think_.

            If she didn’t have to go to work, she had time. If Bentley were home, if Dipper were around, it would be devastating. It still was, a little. But Bentley was gone. Nobody knew where he was. The cultists couldn’t remember the truck’s appearance, or plate, or identification. They didn’t know the client’s name. They didn’t know where the stasis fridge came from.

            Torako stiffened at the realization.

            “What an honorable person you are, Nathan Akuapem,” Dipper said quietly.

            “Look who’s talking,” Officer Nathan said, an edge to his tone that didn’t come from the pain in his head. “I don’t think a _demon_ can lecture me on honor.”

            “I don’t pretend to have any,” Dipper lied. Torako wanted them to shut up, thinking over and over the glimmer of hope they had for finding Bentley. She thought—it could be viable. She hoped it was viable, because if Dipper didn’t know where Bentley was now, then—

            “I understand,” Torako said. She looked up. “Really, I get it. Thank you for—for not reporting me.”

            Officer Nathan looked at her like he wasn’t sure what to think anymore. It hurt, but she’d half expected it to happen, so it wasn’t the blow it could have been. He nodded.

            “Do you think you could do me one last favor?”

            “Torako, you’ve worked so hard for this, what—”

            “Dipper. Shut up.” Torako didn’t even look at him. This was too important. She needed Officer Nathan to agree to this. She had to be able to do this as legally as possible, because she didn’t want to alienate her friend any more than she already had.

            Dipper shut up.

            Officer Nathan blinked, then said, “I can’t make any promises.”

            Torako locked eyes with him. “I just need clearance to ask about the fridge that was stolen. Manufacturing details. Order details. There might be something there. Or if you don’t trust me to do that, please, have somebody else look into it and just forward me the information. Please.” Torako fought to remain dry-eyed.

            Officer Nathan closed his eyes. He breathed. He was silent.

            “ _Please_.”

            After a long, long pause, he said, “Okay. I’ll have Officer Zala look into it tomorrow, and I’ll forward the information to you.”

            Torako breathed out, and with that breath she released tension she didn’t realize she was holding. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

            He sighed. “You’re going after him, aren’t you.”

            “Of course I am,” Torako said. “He’s my partner. He’s my family. He means—he means more than anything to me.”

            Dipper set a hesitant hand on her shoulder. She let him. They stayed there, in the alleyway, just breathing in silence. The slightly damp, warm air, the odd quality of demonic energy that was both unnerving to something deep in Torako, but also familiar, like a warm bathrobe after a long bath.

            Finally, Torako said, “Let’s get you to the hospital, Officer,” and stood up on aching feet, because she had to.

* * *

            be n t ley         dr e am s

            he                                he                                he

doesn’t

 

wa  nt  to        

drea m

 

 

_bentley is fucking sick of all this fucking dreaming he’s going to f u             ck         in g_

 

 

            torako

cruel

her                   her words                    are

_torako would never say those things she would never f ucking s a   y      th e  m this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong this    is          wr  o n_

dipper

do        e s n     ‘           t   lov   e     h   im 

a ny mo           re                                 he doesn’t wan t bent le y

_this is wrong this is more than his brain usu a  a l l y does it’s har d to  t h I n k it’s hard but bentley is_

_Bentley is Sick as Fuck of Dreaming. This is Wrong. Dipper love s               hi         m  he_

nothing

a v a c  uu m of n o     t hi n g

crushing

him

suffocating

him

nothing

noth     i n g

no        t h         in g

dipper did this

_and Dipper fucking a p o lo gized he apologized HE APOLOGIZED and_

_it was bentley’s fault too_

_this is wrong, he knows this already why is this h a pp          e          n in      g          something is_

_wrong_

_wrong_

_w r   o n         g_

            bentley dre a m s

            and be n tl    e y is  tire d         _sick as fuck_      of         _this is wrong this is wrong_

he’s dreaming

* * *

            Torako got the text at three the next afternoon. Sunday afternoon, when she and Bentley would usually be lounging about, needling each other to do chores that neither of them wanted to do.

            Instead, Torako got up early. She went on a run. She cleaned the apartment, top to bottom. Left the fridge alone. She pulled out Bentley’s art supplies for when he got back, pulled out all the nightlights they had in storage, made sure all the clothes were clean and ready to be zapped warm for maximum comfort. She pulled her hunting gear out of storage, put on her old charmed boots. Bought a new bag. Packed clothes, packed food, packed money and her international travel permit just in case.

            She packed Bentley’s favorite sweater, yarn mismatched in places where he’d fixed it. She packed his second favorite for herself, because. Because.

            “Your phone chimed,” Dipper said. He’d been quiet. They’d both been quiet. She didn’t like it, but she wasn’t sure how to start untangling her feelings, let alone spin them into words.

            “I know,” she said. She finished setting magnets into the backpack, then fixed the sigils Bentley had made into them. They were old, from her hunting days, and newer ones would be stronger, but Bentley wasn’t there. Torako was, and she could make sigils, but it felt wrong to replace them before they were dead.

            Just in case, she packed supplies to make extras. Then, only then, did she pick up the phone and navigate to Officer Nathan’s text.

            There were two pictures attached. The first was a compilation of screenshots regarding the information about the fridge. She scanned it, then saved the picture to a new locked folder called BUNNY BOY. Hopefully if her phone was taken, the people would just assume it was mildly embarrassing porn she’d saved.

            The second picture was of Officer Nathan, hooked up to special IVs. Hepsa was next to him, in a wheelchair. She’d left last night, after Torako told her what had happened Torako offered to bring her to the hospital, but Hepsa said she would take a cab. That it would be better to take a cab, Tyrone had just come home, Torako should spend time with him.

            Torako had let her. She hadn’t told her more. That was up to Officer Nathan. Who had, it seemed, attached an actual message to the images.

            _She means more than anything to me, too. Good luck._

            It took a few moments for the significance of the message to sink in. Torako smiled a little, even though everything felt a little dull, and pocketed the phone.

            “Well?” Dipper asked. He’d demolished the Moffios out of her sight, thankfully, but sometimes she saw marshmallow bits caught between his teeth. She would give up all the Moffios in the world if she thought it would get her Bentley back.

            “A city in North Africa,” Torako said. “Some coastal place called Parakou,.”

            Dipper made a face. “Benin isn’t even that far north, why is it called North Africa now?”

            Whatever _Benin_ was. “Beats me.” Torako tilted her head. Then, she did that shrugging thing Dipper was so fond of, just to see him smile. Bentley had adopted it more than she had, but. But. Bentley wasn’t here.

            But she was going to get him. She was going to find him. And they were going to come home.

            “So what’ll you give me to power this international trip?” Dipper asked. There was a gleam in his eye that Torako didn’t like, that Torako knew he couldn’t help. She let it be.

            “I think,” she said, pulling out a bag of gummy worms, “that these’ll do the trick, right?”

            Dipper grinned wide. Torako did her best not to think about the cultists. She hadn’t watched any news that day just to make sure she didn’t know what had happened to them, after they’d been left in that alley. “It’s a deal.”

            He reached out with hone hand. She placed the gummy worms in it, and then shook. Blue demonfire raced up her palm, making her skin tingle and the hair on her arms stand up.

            “But before we go,” Dipper said, pulling a patch of material from thin air, “I think you should carry this around. Just in case.”

            Torako took the patch, rubbed a thumb against its familiar, warm edge. She smiled, sharp, and slapped the embroidered image of Mizar’s bat on the wrist of her left jacket sleeve. The enchantments took, stuck the patch to the fabric, and Torako felt ready. She pulled on the backpack. She put on her cap. She rolled her shoulders, stood up straight.

            “Let’s go,” she said. In the space between breaths, they were gone, the apartment was empty, and nobody was any wiser. In ten other places, identical demonic signatures flared, forming a perfect circle. At the epicenter was Timothy Janning’s home. That home had a basement. The basement had candles, and chalk, and a dozen assorted magical creatures ready to be sacrificed.

            Timothy Janning was arrested two days later.

* * *

Bentley dreams

            _he fights_

He dreams of things like being hated, of hating himself, of being abandoned and left behind and mocked for it

            _but his friends, his father, none of them would say those things and this is w ro ng this is wrong he fights_

He cannot stop crying

            _there cannot be this many tears in even a dream, bentley would know, he would know_

He can barely breathe

            _if bentley fights, and fights, and fights, he can feel a pressure on his chest, on his entire body, like time is standing still and something is wrong_

He can barely think

            _especially if he fights a little, but if he fights a lot coherency returns and he feels an unsettlingly familiar, an unsettlingly unfamiliar sensation crawling along his skin, less physical than mental but real and wrong_

But he keeps dreaming

_he keeps fighting, in fits, where he drowns and resurfaces and drowns and resurfaces and  
d ro w n s_

He dreams

_he’s so sick of dreaming_


	7. Meung-soo Entertains some Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their visit to the refrigerator factory, Dipper and Torako track down the person who commissioned the fridge. Meung-soo entertains some late-night visitors. Bentley wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo!! I'm tired!! I need sleep!!!

**Chapter 6: Meung-soo Entertains some Visitors**

            In their haste, both Dipper and Torako forgot about the existence of time zones.

            “I can’t believe we didn’t think about the fact it was nighttime here,” Torako muttered as they sat in a public park. In the distance, Torako could hear the ocean—similar enough to soothe, off enough to unsettle. “Aren’t you the all-knowing demon?”

            “I forgot,” Dipper said. He had on the hazy semblance of human skin, tight enough around the edges that Torako wasn’t at all fooled by it. But in the cover of night, to somebody who didn’t know him, Dipper might be taken for mortal. “I don’t usually have to think about time zones.”

            “All-knowing,” Torako insisted. She kicked the dirt path in front of them, glared at the public gardens surrounding a swatch of grass in the center. Some plant across the way was literally glowing, and she didn’t know if it was magically induced or just bioluminescence.

            Dipper didn’t have anything to say to that. When Torako looked over at him, he had brought his knees up to his chest and was staring out at the garden. _Oh no_ , Torako thought. _There he goes_.

            “I shouldn’t have left,” Dipper said. “If I hadn’t left, Bentley wouldn’t be gone.”

            Torako sighed. She leaned back against the bench and stared up past the canopy of trees into the sky. “Probably,” she said. Torako watched the stars flicker, trembling under the weight of the universe’s enormity. She felt it press on her. She was too tired for this.

            But she couldn’t be. She couldn’t be. Her boys depended on her.

            Predictably, Dipper had curled up tighter into himself. Torako wondered if he’d be alive to see the lights of some of those stars go out, millennia after they’d already passed. She wondered if he knew which ones were already gone in that moment. She almost wanted to know.

            Instead of asking, she ran a hand through her hair and said, “You know, the same could be said of me. I could have been there that night, hypothetically. Then the cultists would have had a damn hard time getting Bentley out in the first place.”

            “Torako, you were saving a kid. I was just—doing nothing.”

            “Hiding,” Torako said, because it was the truth and she was tired. Dipper flinched. She closed her eyes and breathed in, breathed out. “It’s okay. You do that sometimes. You couldn’t have known it was a bad time.”

            For a while, Torako just let herself exist in the moment, in the tense silence between them. The breeze was cool on her skin, the air just salty enough to remind her of home, while lacking the tumultuous energy thrumming in the space between atoms. Parakou hadn’t always been a coastal city, but it hadn’t been created by demonic forces either.

            “All-knowing,” Dipper said, quietly. Then, he laughed a little.

            Torako thought about reaching out and pulling him close. Then she breathed, in and out, and stood up.

            “Sitting here isn’t doing us any good,” she said. “And I’m on a completely different timezone, so sleeping isn’t going to do me any good either. Let’s scope out the factory.”

            Dipper stared up at her and then stood himself, so smooth she knew he was slipping, that his grasp on humanness was falling between the fingers of his control. “All right,” he said. “Do you want to blip, or walk?”

            “Walk,” Torako said. She hefted the bag on her back, and looked to the entrance of the park, where a couple people were entering, giggling all the while. “I think we need the air.”

            So they walked, navigating the busy streets of Parakou with only a couple turnarounds. Torako was nearly tempted by a couple of hole-in-the-wall restaurants, but she figured that eating could happen after they found the factory. Then, sleep, as much as she could. 

            She had a thought, and tilted her head at Dipper walking beside her. “When we find Bentley,” she said, “what do we do? Will he even be able to go home right away?”

            Dipper broke stride a little, but caught back up a moment later. “What do you mean?”

            “The nightmares,” Torako said. She worried at the cuffs of her jacket with her fingers. They moved more into the crowd of people to avoid a remote fire station, set into the ground and blinking slow, blue light.

            “Oh,” Dipper said. He thought for a while, and spoke up once there were just a few less people. “You’re right. He’s not going to…really want to see me, is he?”

            Torako considered that. “I think we should give him more credit than that,” she said, slowly. “I think…he’s not going to be in a good place once we find him, but this is Bentley. He’ll know us. He’ll want to see us.”

            “But not blip home,” Dipper said. His hands flexed by his sides. She could see the image of his fingernails wavering, shimmering in the streetlights of the city. Then the image steadied, and Dipper looked her in the eye, brown irises flickering dimly into gold and back again. “You don’t have his travel permit.”

            “He’s been listed as a kidnapped person,” Torako said. “If-When we find him. When we find him, the authorities aren’t going to care about how he entered the country without it as long as he leaves safely.”

             Dipper pressed his lips together. They passed a chain department store and waited at the crosswalk to cross the street. “He’s going to need a hospital.”

            “Probably.” Torako stared at the other side of the street, at the throng of people there. She felt the people all around her and felt suddenly claustrophobic, but pushed the feeling down.

            “And a therapist.”

            The light turned green. They began to cross, and Torako was hyperaware of all the people around them. She chose her words carefully. “That might be…difficult.”

            Dipper bumped into somebody, apologized, and turned his attention back to her. His hair was moving a little oddly in the air, but he didn’t seem to notice at all. “Doctor-patient confidentiality exists,” he said.

            “You really think it would in this case?” Torako said. “It could be brought to the Federation’s attention. We’re still citizens. We can still be tried by their laws.”

            A gaggle of teenagers passed by, laughing loudly and giggling at something they were watching. Torako wanted, in a fit of irrational frustration, to reach over and teach them a lesson about situational awareness.

            “Then we find him someone who wouldn’t breathe a word,” Dipper said, quietly. She felt his hand brush hers, probing. She didn’t know if she wanted to take it.

            “How would you do that?” Torako asked. “You can’t force anybody to do something they don’t want.”

            They turned right at the next corner. Torako fished out her phone and they retreated to a wall to make sure they were heading in the right direction after all. She input the address and frowned. They’d made a wrong turn, but it wasn’t a disastrous mistake.

            “I’ve known a lot of people,” Dipper said, quietly, hesitantly, like he didn’t want to speak but was making himself. “There might be someone who has that training.”

            “And speaks the language?” Torako asked. They reentered the crowd. “And is willing? And discreet? And not scared of…you know?”

            Dipper was silent.

            “I know that…you knew them, once. But they’re not going to be the same people.” Torako stared straight ahead. “Left at the light.”

            Dipper was silent, still. When she looked over, his chest was perfectly still and his eyes were shut, even though he kept moving. Torako looked down at his hands, curled into fists, the nails hidden. She felt a flutter of guilt in her chest.

            At the crosswalk, she reached out and brushed the back of her hand against his. He jolted, and the light turned green even as the air crackled between them in his surprise, and she reached out again.

            He took her hand. His movements were slow, like he was scared to scare her, or maybe like he thought she’d move away if he wasn’t careful enough. As they walked, his fingers slotted in the gaps between hers. She squeezed them. He pressed closer.

            “I’m just saying that you can’t promise it,” she said. “And that it’s not fair to treat them like the people you once knew.”

            Dipper nodded. They stepped up onto the curb.

            “I can try,” he said. In the moment, she knew he meant it, so Torako nodded at him and pressed back a little, to let him know she had heard and understood. But as they kept walking, she began to wonder. She wondered if push came to shove, if Bentley was suffering, what Dipper would do. Would he force the issue? Would he manipulate the situation so that the therapist, whoever they were, had to comply and had to keep their mouth shut?

            Then she wondered, as they moved ever closer to the factory, what she would do. If Bentley was suffering, if Bentley needed help long after this ordeal was over. Would she help Dipper find somebody and make them? Would she threaten, bribe, make a deal to keep their mouth shut? Torako listened to the background noise of a thousand feet hitting the ground, of vehicles thrumming over the pavement, their engines a low hum that barely registered loud enough to be heard at the speed they were going. Torako pulled Dipper left again, then straight a couple blocks, then right, caught up in the questions in her own head.

            She wanted to say she wouldn’t. But if she was honest with herself, she didn’t know that her desperation wouldn’t lead her to a decision that would follow her the rest of her life. If it was a choice between Bentley’s wellbeing and that of a stranger’s? Even if Bentley was against it himself?

            By the time they got to the factory and stepped out of the shifting crowds around them, she still didn’t know what she would do.

            “The lights are still on,” Torako said. “Night shift?”

            “Probably,” Dipper said. He still held her hand. It was getting a little sweaty and uncomfortable, but Torako let him. “Some people like to work at night more.”

            “Some people are more desperate to work at night,” Torako said. “It pays more.”

            Dipper shrugged. “Well, it works out in our favor, so I’m not going to split hairs.” He stepped forward to the entrance, tugging Torako behind him.  

            “Why would you even split hairs? That makes no sense, what does hair have to do with this?” Torako hurried to be side-to-side with him—better to present a united front, where they were taken as equals from the get-go—and smiled a little as Dipper spluttered.

            “I—you—it’s just a turn of phrase, okay?”

            She reached for the door and looked at him. “But seriously, why would you split hairs? What does it mean?”

            He rolled his eyes. She rolled hers back at him, and watched him puff up. “It means that I’m not going to make mountains out of molehills,” he said.

            She opened the door. “Mountains, molehills and hairs? What does this have to do with how much fish the fishery down the road didn’t catch yesterday?”

            Dipper spluttered even more, and they stepped into the lobby of the factory. It was clean, all precisely curved corners and soft shades of pastel. The air smelled slightly salty, and maybe a little flowery, but it was a pretty nice scent all things considered. The better a factory was, the cleaner it was, and this one seemed pretty top-notch. But most lobbies were clean, Torako figured, because that’s where everybody came who wasn’t a worker.

            The person at the desk stood up from their chair. They said something. Dipper said something back, and their expression went a little funny, like he had said something weird.

            “What did you say?” Torako asked in a low whisper. Dipper grimaced back.

            “They’re laughing at my accent, probably,” he mumbled. “All-knowing apparently means antiquated speech patterns.”

            Torako thought back to when she’d first met Tyrone, and snickered. “Old fart,” she said.

            “Shut up.”

            The person’s ears flicked, and then next time they spoke it was in Standard American English, even if there was a bit of an accent present. “I hear you want an information?”

            “Oh!” Torako let go of Dipper’s hand to step closer to the desk. “Yes. I’m looking into a stasis fridge that was commissioned here, order…give me a moment please,” she said, as she brought up the correct file on her phone. “Right. Order Z-93 4A36. I just needed to know who commissioned it, or talk to the person who took the commission?”

            Immediately, the person’s expression changed into that blank, fake-polite one that customer service agents always got when they knew a client wouldn’t like what they were about to say.

            “I’m very sorry,” the person said, “but this…this place’s normal way is not giving any important information. That is an important information.”

            Torako did not like that answer. But she wasn’t a bitch, so she tried to explain. “I’m only asking because I’m investigating a kidnapping, and we have reason to believe that the refrigerator commissioned here is connected to that case.”

            The person gasped, and covered their mouth with one furry hand. “Oh no,” they said. “I’m very sorry. Do you have papers? I can call my boss if you have papers.”

            Torako smiled. She was screaming inside. She shouldn’t have forgotten that going the legal route always involved paperwork. All the paperwork. That she didn’t have. “Of course,” she said, weakly. “I don’t have physical copies, but I have digital paperwork.”

            She did. It was just a copy of the order, from the store itself. Maybe it would be enough to convince the poor person that they could go in. Otherwise they’d leave and break in later. Torako didn’t want to break in.

            A door opened, and a burly human entered the area behind the lobby desk and rattled off a sentence. The person in front of them nodded, then gestured to Dipper and Torako and said something else. Torako watched them have a short conversation, and noticed the moment Dipper slid his hand back into Torako’s. Her eyes narrowed. He was stiff. Something was wrong.

            The burly human looked at them. “Hello,” they said. “I hear you ask about order Z-93 4A36?”

            “Yes,” Dipper said. “It’s connected to a kidnapping.”

            The human stared at them both, gaze flitting from one to the other. Then they bit the side of their mouth, the cheek hollowing just a little bit with the motion. “You need to come with me,” they said. “I was in charge of Z-93 4A36. You have fridge papers?”

            Torako pulled them up on her phone and swiveled it to show the human over the counter. “You’re going to tell us?”

            “Colette!” The person said. They rattled something off in whatever language was spoken there. Torako couldn’t remember.

            Colette finished scanning the document on the screen, then patted the person on the back and replied. Whatever the reply was, it calmed the person down enough that the fur around their neck began to relax from its bristled position.

            “Okay,” The human said. They pressed a button on the counter that let them pass through, and gestured to a door opposite the desk. “In that room, please.”

            Torako glanced at Dipper to see if he was showing any signs of an imminent trap. Instead, he was staring at Colette, eyes kind of glazed over though thankfully still human. Just in case, Torako nodded at the human and brought Dipper’s face towards her, angling herself so that nobody else could see his eyes. “You there, Ty?”

            He blinked, once, twice, and his eyes began to bleed back to normal until he actually recognized her. “Tora?” He asked.

            “Come,” Colette said again. They had reached the door.

            “Let’s go get that information, okay?” Torako rubbed her thumb up and down his cheek. He was still holding her other hand. “You all there now?”

            Dipper closed his eyes and leaned forward. She let him rest against her shoulder while he got himself under control. Part of her wanted to shove him away. Part of her wanted to pull him closer. She stood, pulled between the two desires, and let him do what he needed. Eventually, Dipper pulled away.

            “You okay?” Colette asked from across the room. The sound echoed slightly, from the tall, pastel-purple ceilings. Torako looked up to see that the ceiling had been enchanted to look like a sunny window.

            “Yeah,” Dipper said back. “Just—had a moment. Sorry.”

            He squeezed her hand tight, and they entered the room after Colette together. When the door shut behind them, it did not lock, and Torako relaxed. She still took the room in.

            Small round table in the center with plenty of chairs. Probably useful enough as barriers to wait any kind of barrage out, and the chairs looked light enough to throw. There was a drink machine set into the wall, humming white noise into the room. At the end of the room, there was a panel that acted as a clock, and an enchanted window that in reality lead to nothing, probably, but made it seem like they were in the mountains.

            Colette sat down. They waved their hand. “Please sit.”

            Torako and Dipper sat, Dipper closer to the door. Colette stared at them, and then bridged her fingers and set her chin on them.

            “I know some things about the order,” they said. “But not all. I think not even commissioner know all the things. So be patient, yes?”

            “Of course,” Torako said. “Please, tell us what you know.”

            Colette huffed. “I save worst for last, okay? Now. This was odd commission. Custom design, never seen before, but very strange and I do not much like strange. Stasis design allows people in fridge, and I do not agree but boss told me to go ahead. Very expensive commission. So I made fridge.”

            “Do you know who made the custom design?” Torako leaned forward on the table. She then swiped her phone notepad open and pulled the pen from its dimensional pouch. “Can I take notes?”

            “Yes, write. Or if you want, you can record. It is not much.” Colette looked down their strong nose and then sighed. “Do what is need—you need. Do what you need.”

            “Thank you.” Torako thumbed on the recording app, but began to take notes anyways. “Please continue.”

            “Okay. Who made commission. This is also strange. Commissioner have client too. Said, this fridge is not for them. Their design. Their order, but it is not for them, not even present. Very strange. Do not like. Still made.”

            Torako made a few notes, and looked at the other’s face. It was a little tight. Their fingers were now set on the table, and the topmost thumb kept stroking the top of the other thumb. They were nervous. Torako jotted that down too.

            “Do you have a name?” Dipper asked, at last. “Of the client, or the commissioner?”

            Colette bit their lip. “I do not know client’s name,” they said, slowly. “Only commissioner. And the commissioner want you to know.”

            The hair stood up on the back of Torako’s neck. “Is that the bad news?”

            “Maybe,” Colette said. “She said if you are who she thinks, then it is.”

            Dipper sat up straight. His eyes were wide, and Torako knew without having to see inside his head that his brain was working at lightyears a second, or some ridiculous measurement that was unattainable by mortal beings.

            “Is there anything else first, then?”

            Colette nodded. They pressed down on the table, and it whirred out a small piece of paper and a pen. They wrote something down, then folded the paper in half to slide it across the table. Torako took it, and opened it. It was an address.

            “This is where the commissioner lives?”

            Dipper stiffened next to her. His hand shot up and clutched her arm, and when she looked at him she knew something was Wrong.

            “We have to go,” Torako said. She shoved the paper into her pocket and looked at Colette. “Please, please tell me who the commissioner is.”

            Colette stood. They looked at them, unease on their face for the first time, and said. “Okay. They said their name is Meung-soo.”

            Torako’s breath caught in her throat. Dipper’s claws—they were claws now, not fingernails, they needed to leave—dug into her skin hard enough to bruise, close to breaking the skin if they got any sharper. Her voice came through thin and high. “Ellig?”

            “Yes. You know?”

            Torako looked at Dipper, whose face was getting unnaturally ashen. “I…we need to go,” she said, weakly. “Can we…”

            Colette opened the door for them. Torako pulled Dipper out, nodded to the person at the desk, and then hurried Dipper out the door. She barely got them out of the crowd, to an area very few people were, when Dipper tugged her close enough to hurt. There was a lurching sensation, like falling down and being pulled up all at once, and they were suddenly in the cool, wide expanse of a desert somewhere.

            Dipper clutched at her, fully demon now. “He’s gone, he’s gone, Torkao he’s gone, I can’t feel him, Torako—”

            Torako’s heart seized in her throat along with her breath. “Dipper, what’s going on, what’s happening?”

            He fell to his knees in the sand. Torako dropped with him.

            His claws pressed into her skin, through her skin, and she winced. “Dipper, what happened, what do you mean he’s gone, he can’t be gone—”

            “He’s not _there anymore, Torako_!” Dipper’s voice rose unexpectedly into a scream, and Torako felt her head thrum with the power of it. “I can’t feel him, he faded, he’s _faded Torako he’s faded who did this??_ ”

            Torako latched onto his words as soon as she was mentally capable of wrapping her head around them. “Faded, you said faded—do dead people fade, Dipper, do they usually fade?”

            Dipper didn’t seem to hear her. He didn’t seem to notice that he was digging his claws in deeper, and Torako let out a long whine of pain. He was staring out into the nothingness around them, the sand that piled up into dunes, unmoving in the absence of wind.

            “Dipper,” she said. He didn’t react. “Dipper! Dipper you’re hurting me!”

            Very slowly, Dipper looked at her. But he couldn’t be looking at her because there was no focus on that gaze, dead and empty and so vast Torako felt herself teetering on the edge of it. “Did…did you take my Mizar?” he asked, quiet enough that Torako barely heard him over the thumping of her heartbeat.

            She gasped. Dipper gripped her tighter, and she screamed. He floated up, dragging her with him, his hair whipping around him, shimmering golden lines zigzagging into existence on his face. Like bricks, she thought absently, her eyes wide.

            “Mizar is _mine_ ,” Dipper snarled, high and reedy and with the sound of shattering earth in the dip of his vowels. He yanked, and Torako gasped, one arm aching fiercely. The one he broke, years ago. Torako remembered his guilt, in a sudden rush. She also remembered who was the one to bring them back together, it was Bentley, it was Alcor’s _Mizar_ and there was no Mizar here they couldn’t afford this!

            Torako gritted her teeth, then reached back and dug her fingers into Dipper’s shoulders with enough force they ached. “I _would never_ hurt Bentley,” she snarled through the pain, tears pricking at the corners of her scrunched-up eyes. She found her feet and pushed up into Dipper, nose to nose with him despite the jagged sharpness of his shark’s maw, or the terrible, echoing emptiness that suffocated the air around him. “You fuckwitting dimshit, I love him a thousand times more than I love myself so _stop taking your grief out on me_!”

            Dipper snarled right back in her face, looming as much as he could. So Torako did the only think she could. She reared back and smashed her forehead into his.

            For a second, she could feel him lashing out reflexively in her mind. Her throat suddenly hurt, there was no sound, no sight. Pain lanced through her head, strong enough to cut the signals she was sending to her legs to hold her up and she fell. Her head throbbed, there was grit in her mouth and her body felt heavy enough that she couldn’t move more than a finger. There was static in her ears. Torako felt like she was floating, except the river wasn’t water it was just a whole bunch of needles being shoved everywhere.

            Pressure against her forehead, then the sensation melted away, slow an iced-over pond during spring.

            When she could hear again, it was Dipper’s voice, wobbly and warbly, begging over and over, “Don’t leave me too, Torako, please, don’t leave me I can’t, I can’t, not ever but especially not now, not when it’s me, please don’t leave.”

            Torako blinked open her eyes. She shifted. Dipper was instantly upon her, asking what she needed, what she wanted, thank you thank you for not leaving thank you.

            She gathered up some spit and then let it carry some of the sand out through the corner of her mouth. Then, she looked up, vision hazy, and said, “Water.”

            Dipper nodded, crying, and carefully drew one arm through the strap of her bag to access the pouch that held her food and beverage rations. She blinked, and the next thing she knew he was holding her water up to her mouth, and a bit was lying against the inside of her cheek. She tasted copper, and grit. With great effort, she swished the water around and then spit it out.

            “Yes, yes, that’s it,” Dipper said, voice still shaking. “Do you need more?”

            Torako blinked her eyes once, slow, and he tipped the water into her mouth again. They repeated the process two more times before Torako drank some of the water instead. She pushed herself to sit up, but wouldn’t have made it very far without Dipper helping to prop her up.

            “I’m so sorry,” Dipper said. He hovered. It was awful. Torako lifted a trembling hand to press against her aching head, pain pulsing in her upper arm in time to her heartbeat. “I’m so sorry, I—I lost sight of where I was and who you were, and I can’t feel him anymore—”

            “Sssh,” Torako said. Dipper shushed.

            Torako didn’t know how long it took her, eyes closed and just breathing, to feel well enough to actually talk again. Dipper hovered above her, and then behind her, and then finally settled down in the sand at her back. He twitched only when dangerous things came across them, and that was enough to have them beating a hasty retreat into the darkened landscape all around. Gradually, the pain in her head receded, the pain in her arms dulled to an insistent ache, and her body didn’t feel quite so heavy, so she spoke.

            “Where are we?”

            Dipper startled, but didn’t ask why she’d chosen those words as her first. “Sahara desert. I thought—Bentley was gone and I needed somewhere with nobody. Or almost nobody. There’s a settlement a good two-hundred kilometers away.”

            Torako nodded. She raised the water to her lips and sipped slowly, thought over her next question very carefully.

            “You said,” she began, voice hoarse, “that you can’t feel Bentley. That he faded.”

            Dipper curled up behind her, and she felt the lack of his warmth keenly in the desert cold.

            “Do people usually…do they usually fade when they die?”

            “Sometimes,” Dipper said, voice halting. “When they bleed out. Or when they’re old.”

            “And did you feel anything special this time?” Torako closed her eyes and swallowed. It only made her throat hurt more. “Like, pain?”

            Dipper was quiet for a long, long moment. “No,” he said, very softly. “I didn’t.”

            “Can you…” Torako wet her lips. She crossed her aching arms. They didn’t appear to be bleeding anymore. “Can you reach deeper? Try harder to feel him?”

            The night was silent between them. Dipper relaxed back against her, and Torako did her best to suppress the instinctual spike of terror. It was done. They had to grow up and figure things out. While Dipper focused, Torako drank the water. She should probably eat something, she thought, but there wasn’t anything in her that actually wanted food. There was an acrid taste at the back of her throat, and she couldn’t remember quite enough to know if she’d thrown up or not. Torako wouldn’t be surprised if she had, to be honest.

            Dipper stiffened against her back. Torako twisted so that she could see him better, her side pressed up against the ridges of his spine. “What is it? Did you find him?”

            He buried his face in his hands. Torako felt her gut curl in on itself. He hadn’t said anything, she told herself. “Dipper?”

            “He’s there,” Dipper whispered. Torako let out a shaky breath. “He’s there, but it’s so…it’s so _faint_. I’ve never felt this before, Torako.”

            Torako reached out and pushed at Dipper’s shoulder. He stiffened, resisted, but eventually went with it, turning to face her more fully. She felt like she was walking on knifepoint, but she slowly laid her hand against Dipper’s cheek. “Look at me.”

            Dipper lifted his head and met her gaze for a split second before staring at something on her left cheek. She let it go. “Dipper, please explain.  I don’t understand.”

            He closed his eyes. “It’s like…I can tell he’s alive. Barely. But it’s like there’s layers and layers of heavy cloth between us, and I can only tell he’s there if I listen really hard. Maybe like he’s been thrown into another dimension, but that can’t be right, it’s impossible.”

            Torako dropped her hand to his shoulder, slow and gentle. She thought, then said, “What if he was in a pocket dimension? It’s not quite the same as here, after all.”

            Dipper shook his head. “No, that’s—that’s not like this. That’s more like looking through clear water; it’s a little distorted, but it’s close enough that it’s nearly the same. This is…this is different.”

            The weight of it all pressed down on them, alone, in the desert under a gut-clenchingly clear sky. Torako thought about the stars, and their light, and their death, and hoped against all hope that Bentley’s sudden disappearance from Dipper’s mind wasn’t something similar.

            “What are we going to do?” Torako said, suddenly. She felt lost, helpless. “I can’t travel across dimensions. Can you?”

            Dipper laughed, short and choppy. “Maybe. I don’t know. You think I would know. With all the shit I put up with, I should know.”

            Torako didn’t know what to say to that. She let him go, and leaned back, her hands sinking into the sand underneath. She looked up at the stars, at the pale slice of waning moon in the sky. She wondered if any of the colonists up there from Earth were looking down at them. She wondered what they were thinking, a world away. If they had family, on Earth, if they missed them, how long it would be until they were reunited. Parents to children, cousins to cousins, aunts and uncles to—

            Torako sat up so fast her head swam, and she had to hold still for a long moment.

            “Torako?”

            “Holy shit,” Torako croaked. She shoved her hand into her pocket, hissing at the pain the quick movement caused, and curled her fingers around paper. It crinkled, satisfying against her fingers, and Torako’s chest tightened in excitement.

            Then it tightened in anger, as she remembered exactly what the paper held. Why she had it. What it meant for her, for Bentley.

            “Torako, what is it?”

            “You might not have noticed, maybe,” Torako said. She passed the paper to Dipper, and he looked at it before recognition dawned.

            “Isn’t this Bentley’s Aunt’s place? In Germany? Why do you…”

            Dipper trailed off. He stared at the piece of paper in his hand. Sand began to float in the air, piece by piece, and Torako had to reach out slowly to rescue their evidence before he incinerated it.

            “I am going to _rip_ that woman to _shreds_ ,” Dipper snarled. He sunk his hands into the sand, and it glowed white-hot. “I will rend her limb from limb, I will feed her the hearts of those she loves and devour their souls in front of her, I will destroy her soul so utterly that it takes her _millennia_ to reform.”

            Torako was about ready to join him, but she held up a hand. “Wait,” she said.

            “ _Why_?” Dipper turned on her, teeth bared. In the light of molten glass underneath him, the contours of his face were even eerier than usual, and Torako scrambled back a short ways before she realized what she was doing. He froze. Glass continued to burn under his hands.

            With a deep breath, Torako continued. “Meung-soo told that person to let us know. She gave them her address to give _us_.”

            “What does Grenda have to do with this?”

            Torako opened her mouth to correct Dipper on Colette’s name, but decided it wasn’t worth the breath. Or her throat. “Meung-soo chose to let us know. Which means she might know more. She’s willing to work with us.”

            “She _took Bentley away_ ,” Dipper hissed. Sand lit up behind him, and Torako had to blink away the afterimage it caused. “We don’t work _with_ her.”

            “I’m not saying we forgive her,” Torako said. “I’m not even saying don’t punch her. But we’ll see what she has to say. Before,” she swallowed, then took a swig of water in the hopes it would soothe a little. “Before we decide if she gets her soul destroyed or not.”

            Dipper stared at her, eyes eerily bright against the shadows of his face and the black of his sclera. “Fine,” he said. “But I don’t know if I can control myself.”

            Torako looked him back in the eye. She didn’t know if he could, either. She didn’t know if _she_ would be able to, depending on what excused Meung-soo Ellig had for them. “You have to,” she said. “Even if it’s in Germany. You can’t explode things. Or burn them.”

            He didn’t blink. Torako didn’t try to match him in that respect, but she kept her gaze on him until the sand stopped glowing. Instead it glinted with moonlight, now glass, sparkling heavy in the ground.

            “Fine,” Dipper said. “But promise me something?”

            Torako nodded.

            “If I lose control,” he said, “don’t try to stop me. Run.”

            Torako closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she could do that either. “I’ll try.”

            Dipper was quiet a long time, so Torako opened her eyes again and watched him for a heartbeat, two, before he nodded. Then, he extended his hand. “Okay. In exchange for this blip,” he said, “you have to promise that if, at any time we interact with Meung-soo Ellig, I lose control, you leave. You get out. You don’t try to save her.”

            “In the next 24 hours only,” Torako said, eyes narrowed. “Not for all time.”

            “A year,” Dipper said. “It has to be something bigger than a day.”

            “Fine, then,” Torako said. “Six months. That’s my last offer. I still have gummy worms.”

            Dipper frowned at her, but shook his hand in the air. “I accept those terms. Shake?”

            Torako placed her hand in his, and in a flash of blue flames they were gone.

* * *

            Dipper was tempted to tesser him and Torako outside Meung-soo’s house in Erkelenz and just watch it burn down. It would have been a slow fire, of course, and Meung-soo would have been unable to leave the house. The panic would have been sweet. The revenge would have been sweeter.

            He thought Torako might even let him get away with it.

            But Meung-soo might have information, so Dipper tessered them _inside_ the house as to attempt giving Meung-soo the shock of her life. The anti-demon wards were torn away in the space of a second, their power no match for his concentration. He knew these kinds of wards inside and out; their weaknesses were old hat to find. In fact, he knew how to make them fail as visibly and frighteningly as _possible_ , so of course he did that.

            They popped into Meung-soo’s living room as the house trembled and the wards lit up with a soft scream, which dissolved into a sigh as the light stopped and ash began to fall from the walls. There was a spike of fear from the kitchen, and a small gasp, but nothing else. Dipper scowled at the lackluster reaction.

            Torako patted him on the shoulder, motions fragile and stiff-jointed with residual pain. Guilt grounded him in the moment and tempered the desire to see just how much Meung-soo could take.

            “Meung-soo,” Torako said, voice flat. “We need to talk.”

            For a few seconds, there was only silence in the house. And then, from the kitchen, Dipper heard a trembling voice say, “In here.”

            Torako stepped around the coffee table and between two armchairs hovering in place, both glowing soft purple in slowly pulsing waves. Dipper floated over them, and pushed one over for good measure, just because he could.

            They stepped into the kitchen. It was immaculate, counters shining in the soft light that flickered on with their entrance. Motion sensitive, it seemed, which meant that Meung-soo had been waiting a long while. She stared up at them, eyes riveted more on Dipper than Torako. Which on one hand, was as it should be—clearly, the most dangerous predator in the room was Dipper—but on the other hand, she wasn’t paying Torako near enough attention. Her loss, Dipper thought. All the more Torako would surprise her. He grinned wide at the thought and Meung-soo paled under her immaculate makeup, nervous crackles of indigo blooming and popping in her aura.

            He hovered higher so that he could lean on Torako’s shoulder, and continued to smile as unnervingly as possible.

            Meung-soo, surprisingly, was the one to break the silence. “I see that…it’s true. Bentley’s involved with the Dreambender.”

            Torako stiffened underneath Dipper’s hand. He leaned in closer to provide comfort and also to loom as menacingly as possible. He watched the rabbit-quick pulse in Meung-soo’s neck, the way she swallowed, the sweat starting to form at the curve of her slightly receding hairline. It would be so easy, he thought. It would be over so fast.

            Meung-soo had information, though. Meung-soo didn’t deserve _fast_. Dipper waited, hovered, and let Torako be the one to speak.

            “And I see,” Torako said, slightly raspy, entirely cold, “that you’re involved in a kidnapping and assault.”

            Meung-soo pressed her lips together and looked back at Torako. “And this isn’t assault?”

            “Not yet,” Torako said. She stepped forward and leaned on the table in the kitchen, pitching her weight forward just slightly. Dipper followed. “And it might not be, depending on what’s said.”

            Meung-soo opened her mouth. Then she shut it, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Dipper noticed Torako’s shaking legs—from anger, and exhaustion, judging by her aura—and pulled out a chair for her. He glanced down at it, and then back at her. Torako told him with her eyes that sitting in front of the Enemy was a Bad Move and Reduced her Power in the situation. He pursed his lips and tapped one toe against the back of her calf. She glowered at him, but took his advice and sat down.

            He was all the power she needed, anyways.

            “All right,” Meung-soo said. She brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

            “Where’s your husband, anyways?” Torako asked. She shrugged out of her backpack with minimal caution, and Dipper watched pain spike through her aura. She showed no other sign of it, though.

            “Not here,” Meung-soo said. She was playing with her wedding ring, and she looked to the side, at the fridge. Dipper entertained thoughts of cramming her in it with whatever leftovers she had. “He’s on a trip with a few friends. Won’t be back for a few days.”

            “Convenient,” Torako drawled. She drummed her fingers on the table, eyes hooded and unforgiving. “Like you conveniently being on a convenient business trip in the convenient vicinity of where Bentley, Alcor and I live. So convenient.”

Meung-soo frowned. Her wrists were bare except for one bracelet, washed out in the light of the kitchen. “Are you going to allow me to explain myself?”

            “Sure,” Torako said. She leaned back and crossed her arms. She was eyeing Meung-soo’s folded hands on the table. “I’d love to hear why you thought deliberately getting to know your nephew under false pretenses while simultaneously plotting his kidnapping and trauma was a good idea. Sounds like something a good Aunt would do, for sure. One that cared about her nephew, uh-huh.”

            Meung-soo clenched her jaw. She tilted up her chin, eyes hard. “Don’t you dare insinuate that I don’t care for Bentley,” she said. Dipper eyed her throat. It was exposed, ripe for the taking. It would feel good, he knew, to rip her windpipe out.

            “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Torako said. Her aura expanded around her, a cloud of repressed fury and grief and pain. Dipper was ready at any moment for her to snap and let him do whatever the hell this woman deserved. “How the _fuck_ is any of this showing you care for him?”

            “Because I was getting him away from demonic influences in his life!” Meung-soo said, loudly. “Philip obviously hadn’t done enough in that regard, so I had to take action!”

            Torako’s shoulders tightened. Dipper smiled wider in a way that was instantly recognizable as a snarl ready to be unleashed. He flapped his wings twice to call attention to himself, and Meung-soo’s eyes darted to him, and then back to Torako.

            “Look,” Meung-soo said, softer this time. “I’d been contacted with proof that Bentley was involved in demonic practices. He’s the only piece of my sister I have left. I couldn’t…I couldn’t let him make her mistakes.”

            Torako snorted. “What, she consorted with demons too?”

            “No,” Meung-soo said. “She married a guy who basically did, though. And her job was literally excavating in dangerous areas that were formed _because_ of the Dreambender, that are still rife with potent energy and chaotic magics. I would think the Federation’s schools would teach that, at least.”

            “Yeah, they do,” Torako said. She set her hands on her thighs and leaned forward. “Trust me, I know. We’re well aware of what Alcor is capable of.”

            “And yet you still tempt fate by interacting with him,” Meung-soo said.

            “I’m here, you know,” Dipper said. He stared at Meung-soo’s bracelet when she moved it. There was something about it that bugged him, just a little.

            “I know,” Meung-soo said. She didn’t maintain eye contact with him for more than a couple seconds. She took in another deep breath, and then continued. “I lost my sister. I will not lose Bentley, not to some kind of madness.”

            Torako clearly wanted to say something, but she bit her lip and kept it back.

            “So I went in,” Meung-soo said. “And like Soo-jan, Bentley was…happy. He seemed well-adjusted. He didn’t seem like a person who would get involved in the wrong things.”

            “That’s because he wasn’t,” Torako muttered.

            Meung-soo’s eyebrows raised. “I think most people would say that summoning a demon falls under ‘getting involved in the wrong things’.”  
            “I think most people would say that getting involved with kidnapping people against their will falls under ‘getting involved in the wrong things,’” Dipper said. So much for letting Torako doing all the talking.

            Meung-soo stared at him with a slightly twisted expression on her face.

            Dipper waved his hand. “I know, you don’t want to hear it from the literal demon, blah blah blah. But think about it this way,” Dipper said, leaning forward so his chin was next to Torako’s forehead, wrapping his arm around her shoulders slowly, “if it’s the _demon_ telling you you did something wrong, what does that tell you?”

            The woman across from them only narrowed her eyes. “It tells me the demon wants something from me and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get it,” she said.

            “But here’s the thing,” Torako interrupted. She swallowed, then continued, voice still hoarse. “Even if you thought you were removing Bentley from a bad environment, then wouldn’t you want him somewhere nearby? Where is he?”

            Meung-soo rubbed her face, the single bracelet on her wrist sliding down to rest at the swell of her forearm. Light glinted off the engraved symbols. _A memory band_ , Dipper realized. _She wants to remember everything._

            Well, Dipper thought, they’d let her do that. The most important part was her being unable to _communicate_ any of it. That kind of curse was definitely in the gummy-worm price range. He and Torako would figure it out.

            “He was _supposed_ to be,” Meung-soo said. She stared down at the table. “He’s supposed to be in a rehab center thirty minutes from here, but he isn’t. I made sure to ask them about the center when they told me about the…the fridge. I was assured that he wouldn’t spend too long in there, that the trauma wouldn’t be horrible.”

            “The trauma wouldn’t be _horrible_?” Torako asked. She stood up, shaking, her hands white-knuckled fists on the tabletop. “How the _fuck_ would the trauma _not be horrible?_ ”

            Meung-soo stood up too. “He’s my sister’s _son_ ,” she said, voice a little loud for the space the kitchen held. “I was in charge of designing that fridge, I made sure _everything_ about the wards, about the materials used, about all of it was as _comfortable_ as _possible_ with the current knowledge in the field! He would be disoriented leaving the fridge, but because he was unconscious entering the stasis field he would have _stayed_ unconscious, and thus limited the trauma.”

            “Yeah, if you call _trapped in nightmare after nightmare_ unconscious, sure! Sorry, I didn’t realize that wouldn’t be traumatizing as _fuck_.” Some of Torako’s words were squeaking off into nothing.

            Meung-soo’s aura began to develop yellow sunbursts of uncertainty. “What do you mean, nightmares? Even if Bentley was prone to them, the stasis should have put those on pause.”

            Torako stared. Dipper’s eyes drifted half-shut, and he watched Meung-soo in consideration. Even if she _didn’t_ know about Alû, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take whatever opportunity was given him to make her life hell.

            Bentley was _his_ , and this woman was complicit in taking him away from Dipper.

            “Meung-soo,” Torako said. She straightened her back. “Do you _know_ how the cultists got Bentley?”

            Meung-soo stopped breathing for a second. Dipper wanted her to stop breathing longer, but he refrained. “What do you mean, cultists?”

            They stared at each other long enough that Dipper could see Torako’s opinion starting to shift.

            “This doesn’t change anything,” Dipper said. He set his claws on the table, and thought it might make Meung-soo upset if he were just to lightly scratch the surface. Or gouge it. He wasn’t picky about depth. “Meung-soo still collaborated with somebody with the intention of kidnapping Bentley.”

            “To bring him to a safe place,” Meung-soo said, shaky. “Nobody said anything about cultists.”

            “The police?” Torako asked.

            “They just said he was kidnapped, and asked if I wanted to speak to you.”

            Silence. Dipper flexed his fingers, and smiled at Meung-soo. “Sounds like there were some communication problems. Like you trusted this source without thinking that maybe, just maybe, somebody would be _lying_. I’d be interested in knowing who you spoke to. It might,” Dipper set his claws into the surface of the table, slow and easy as a hot spoon into butter, “

be good for you to tell us.”

            Meung-soo stared at him, and her gaze tracked down his arm to her table and where his claws were sinking into it. She was silent.

            After a moment, Torako sat down with a tired sigh. Dipper stopped tearing into Meung-soo’s table out of spite, and looked over at her. There were bags under her eyes—she hadn’t slept, yet, he realized, and she had dealt with his—his meltdown in the desert, and she looked so exhausted.

            Feeling suddenly like a small child again, Dipper pulled his claws out of the table surface and sat down on the table. But not on top of the divots, he wasn’t that cowed.

            “Meung-soo,” Torako said, even though her throat must have been hurting like hell. “Let me tell you something. In the past few days, my partner has fallen victim to the same demon my work was tracking, and he was kidnapped on top of that, and I had to call my other partner back in a tense situation and I found out that the person responsible for my partner’s kidnapping was his _aunt_ , who he was genuinely getting to know and coming to love, and my other partner had a _breakdown_ and I had to stop it. I am _tired_ , Meung-soo.”

            The other woman just looked down at her shaking hands. When she made no move to speak, Torako continued.

            “So Meung-soo, I am done with your excuses. I am done with your explanations. I have heard them. I have taken them into account. But in the end, Dipper’s right—if you had not betrayed Bentley, he would still be here. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask you who you talked to. I am going to take that evidence. And you are not going to talk about us, or contact us, ever again.”

            Meung-soo looked up, finally. “Fine,” she said. She pulled out her phone from her sweater pocket, and she navigated to her mail client before sliding it over the table. “Take what you need off there. My contact never returned any of my emails, but he did leave his name at the bottom of an earlier one. Idiot.”

            Torako tossed the phone to Dipper, and without looking at him, said, “Check for bugs and remove them.”

            “What’s in it for me?” Dipper asked. He eyed Torako’s bag on the floor.

            “Bubble gum pop,” Torako said. “Blackberry.”

            “Deal,” Dipper said. He spun the phone between his forefinger and his thumb, but found nothing more than a couple standard bugs picked up from typical internet trawling. “Nothing there,” he said, choosing to interpret ‘bugs’ as ‘malware that’s harmful to us’ and getting on to his candy.

            “Right,” Torako said. She took the phone back and set up the transfer of emails. “Now,” she said, “While that’s happening. Dipper?”

            Dipper pulled the lollipop out of his mouth. “Yeah?”

            Torako’s eyes were hard. “How would you like to earn a bag of super sour gummy turtles?”

            Dipper grinned wide.

* * *

 

            They found a decent hotel in Belgium, a few hundred kilometers from Meung-soo’s house. Torako bathed, carefully, and sat down on the queen bed in the room.

            “So,” she said. She picked up her mug of honeyed tea and sipped at it. It did wonders for her throat, though the pain didn’t cease and she didn’t want to waste candy on a deal for something that would heal by itself. “One Mr. Lloyd Ramnet, apparently. Any idea where?”

            “No,” Dipper said, the unstable energy around him in Meung-soo’s house having disappeared moments after they’d entered the hotel room. It was like he was a different person altogether. He was very carefully not looking at her, his shoulders stiff, and he was actually touching the floor with his feet. “But give me a few hours and I’ll know.”

            Torako sighed. “You’re getting a summons, aren’t you.”

            “It’s not important,” Dipper said. “Just—Batoor. He can wait.”

            She took another sip of tea and let the statement hang in the air, waiting to see if Dipper would come to the possibility she had. But Dipper said nothing, so she spoke up.

            “What if he can’t, though?” Torako said. She stared at Dipper over the rim of her cup. “You know this summoner, and it seems pretty forceful for a quick call. If it’s a quick call? I can’t tell. You should go check it out.”

            Dipper shook his head. “No. Batoor only calls for homework. It’s fine.”

            “…seriously, Dipper, I’ll be fine for five, ten minutes. You can leave me alone. It’s okay.” Torako inhaled, and the scent of slippery elm and honey filled her nose, soft, soothing.

            He shook his head again. “No,” he said. He looked away, and didn’t explain himself. “You should get some sleep. We’ve got to track this person down tomorrow. You need your rest.”

            Torako gestured at her tea. “I’ve got this entire cup left. Why don’t you want to leave?”

            Silence. Torako huffed, then pointedly shifted so that her body was pointing away from him. Dipper didn’t even try to apologize, or interact with her beyond simply being in the room. After a few minutes, Torako noticed that the stiffness bled out of Dipper’s form, but he still didn’t budge. Frustrated, Torako snapped her fingers for the remote, and turned on the television.

            Voices filled the room, lights washed over the furniture, and Torako sipped at her tea. At no point before she went to bed were the voices Dipper’s, or her own.

* * *

            The pressure fell away from him so fast Bentley lost track of time worse than he already had been. When he resurfaced from the sudden drop, everything ached. It ached louder and louder, blood rushing in his ears and the crown of his head heavy, like he hadn’t slept for days. It was disorienting—he couldn’t tell which way was up, or down, or right or anything except he was laying down on some bed, the sheets scratchy against his skin. Something tickled the side of his cheek, his nose, but he couldn’t find the energy to even blow it out of the way.

            So he lay there, wherever _there_ was (he hoped it was home, hurt with hope, but a small part of him knew it wasn’t), and tried to regain his bearings. He didn’t know how long he lay there, just that the heavy (too quick) breaths were too numerous to keep track of, and that the rushing in his ears slowed down so gradually he only noticed once it was a quiet whisper.

            It died down enough, at least, that he was able to hear footsteps.

            In a rush of panic, Bentley peeled his eyes open. Then he shut them against the blinding light, groaning. The footsteps stopped, and the fear was worse than the pain so he squinted, and that helped a little. It didn’t mean he could really see, though, just that there was a blurry figure in white at the end of his bed. It was enough to make his heartrate spike again.

            “Calm down,” the figure said. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack, and then where would that leave me?”

            If Bentley were capable of movement, he would have frozen. His breathing certainly halted at the familiarity of the voice. Bentley blinked fast, hard, instinctually hoping he would be able to see better quicker, dread sitting heavy on his chest.

            “I’ve spent a lot of money to get you here,” they said. They didn’t come closer, for whatever reason. “But the rewards are greater than the risks, I think. The chance to research a living Mizar without the interference of her Alcor? Priceless.”

            Bentley blinked, and caught a flash of orange. He felt as though the floor fell out from under him, even though the bed was just as sturdy as it had been, his limbs just as dead against the sheets as they had been.

            “I must thank you,” Dr. Fantino said. The blur of orange moved, slightly. “Your slip of tongue has given me the chance of several lifetimes. It seems that Philip Farkas was good for one thing, even if it was in death.”

            Bentley shut his eyes, and was too tired to stop the tears.


	8. Lloyd Remnit is the Victim of a Break and Enter and Subsequent Theft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper and Torako find and talk with one Lloyd Remnit before Lata's parents tell them they're missing. Nothing much is happening with Bentley except, you know, trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i wrote this in 48 hours and im dying of sleep deprivation bc of it. Also, before i spent 48 hours writing 11k words, I spent a couple planning out what's happening which is why there's actually a number instead of a question mark in the 'chapter number' field. 
> 
> FYI, I tried my hand at coding hovertext for the zalgo bits. I've undoubtedly missed some, but hopefully you can read it! I tried to keep it from going up or down too far, but there's at least one moment where that does happen. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter 7: Lloyd Remnit is the Victim of a Break and Enter and Subsequent Theft**

            It takes several days of ever-heightening tensions to find Lloyd Remnit. In the interim, Torako shouts at Dipper twice to quit hovering (she wants to shout more), Dipper stubbornly refuses to answer any summons (the third time one comes through, he makes a disgruntled expression and mumbles something about an answering machine, whatever that is), and they have a harrowing experience at a Twin Souls convention in South-Central Canada because of a thief. Torako might have enjoyed Dipper’s shock and subsequent revulsion at a graphic Mizcor fanfic reading in room D27, but she was a little busy. Not only was she trying to hunt down the little shit that stole her phone and all the evidence on it, but her period was also square on day two. Yes, she had a MagixTampon in. Yes, she had extras. Also yes, stress fucked her period pain up to astronomical levels, and the cramping was making everything ten times worse than usual.

            Honestly, there were only a few things that saved the convention from being razed to the ground between Torako’s pain-enhanced irritation and Dipper’s Twin Souls related disgust. They were that one, Torako managed to corner the thief between a rarepair merch stall and somebody selling fanart just safe enough to be shown to the public and just raunchy enough to make Dipper squirm, two, Dipper remained stubbornly attached to her hip and was therefore unable to wreak havoc on the convention-goers, and three, the thief apologized in a small, tremulous voice before offering Torako all his money, please, just don’t hurt me I didn’t realize you were this intense. Torako showed mercy. Torako only took half—and she only took it because the thief had _wasted time_ that she could have spent _finding Bentley_. Even half wasn’t an insignificant amount of cash.

            In the end, however, Dipper managed to find Lloyd Remnit’s residence, and they blipped just outside the walls before continuing on.

            “I still think you should have taken all that dude’s cash,” Dipper said in a (recently) rare display of emotion beyond guilt, protectiveness, or rage. His footsteps were purposefully heavy as they walked up the long gravel drive to Windfall Manor proper. There hadn’t even been a gate, but even with Dipper running interference the hum of the wards they passed through had set Torako’s teeth to vibrating. Rich people, Torako thought.

            “Does this guy even need this much land? This much _grass_?” Torako said instead of answering Dipper’s question. It was moot point anyways. Torako looked out at the wide, hilly lawn surrounding them, exquisitely cultivated ornamental gardens dotting the landscape here and there. She hadn’t seen so much useless grass in one place in her life. The gardens didn’t even look like they had any fruit- or vegetable-bearing plants in them. It was, quite frankly, insane.

            Dipper did his shrug thing. “Grass was pretty normal a millennia or so ago.”

            “Weird,” Torako mumbled. She stared at a bush shaped like a narwhal as they passed. She half-suspected that it wasn’t even real. “This is a really weird dude.”

            Dipper hummed. They then walked in relative silence, the crunch and rasping squeal of stone against stone the only sound. There was no birdsong, no rustling grass, just clear skies up above and a suspiciously perfect hill just ahead. When Torako took a deep breath in through her nose, she could only just smell wet earth and crisp grass, like a ghost of the real thing. Except, you know, less belligerent and murderous than a ghost. She hoped. Murderous grass was uncommon but not impossible, and she’d already had the dubious pleasure of such an encounter. She wasn’t exactly looking for another one.

            At the crest of the hill, Torako hefted her bag up on her back. It was heavier, after a pit-stop at the grocery store for a bunch of goodies. She’d even picked up a box of Moffios before putting it back. She wanted Bentley to yell at her about sufficient nutrients and the folly of eating something literally made of sugar. And there, on that hill, Torako stared at the mansion for the first time, and felt her heart swell with hope.

            And also vague disbelief. Windfall Manor was located down the other side of the hill and a few meters out from the bottom of the slope. It was one of the most ostentatious buildings she’d ever seen. Bits and pieces of what had to be rooms but weren’t shaped in any way like rooms were floating above the main structure, all elegant curves and impossible spires. There were no stairs, anywhere. So either the floaty bits were yet more ornamentation, or the entire house was connected by a localized teleportation system, which would be completely and utterly ridiculous. It would also be in line with what Torako had seen so far, and so she steeled herself for more extravagance. The walls were a beautiful creamy color that faded in and out of opalescence, and the edges and corners were gilded, shining—gorgeous, but enough that Torako could cry in frustration. The moment the thought struck her, Torako had a bad feeling about the situation.

            “What a piece of work,” Torako said into the still air. Beside her, Dipper was forgetting to breathe convincingly. Oh well, it probably wouldn’t matter much longer.

            “Bentley hasn’t pissed off any rich people, has he?” Dipper asked. Torako raised her eyebrows in his direction and told herself that Mr. Self-Laceration wouldn’t blame Bentley.

            “Sure it’s not you?”

            “Me?” Dipper gestured at the house. “I’m not the owner of that thing, as glorious as the spellwork and as handsome as the mathematical precision is.”

             “No, idiot,” Torako said, frowning. “I mean, have _you_ made any rich enemies that would target Ben in order to hurt you, seeing as you’re kind of hard to hurt yourself?”

            Dipper tilted his head and looked up at the sky. “Not that I remember. You?”

            Torako scowled. They were still standing up on top of the damn hill, having a stupid conversation about inconsequential things and her uterus was set on trying to mimic the pain of being torn apart. She was, perhaps, a little sharper than she meant to be. “Geez, I dunno,  targeting him and then citing you as one of the reasons for kidnapping seems like a pretty good indicator that I’m at fault here. Clearly.”

            Dipper drew in on himself, shoulders up and arms in. He turned away slightly. Torako felt both guilt and a kind of ugly triumph burn through her. She put her hand on his shoulder. She took a deep breath, and tried to focus on what was important.

            “Let’s just…get Bentley.” Torako squinted at Windfall Manor. “I think this place looks promising. Enough money to have enough space to hold somebody, and definitely enough money to do whatever it is to dampen your connection to Ben.”

            “Maybe,” Dipper said. He waited for her to step forward, her hand trailing down and off his arm, before he followed. Torako didn’t know if she felt more like a mob boss or an unwitting mother duck.

            “Do we have a plan for this, anyways?” She asked a couple minutes later, just an arm’s length from the front door. The glass set into the front was frosted, but was also animated to swirl in aesthetically pleasing patterns at random. The door jam was adorned with gilded scrollwork, which in turn were inset with tiny runes and wards. Some of them were actually augmented with literal gemstones, which explained the thrum tugging on the edges of her ears, settling into her fingerbones. Torako whistled. She was looking forward to smashing this dude’s face in and then dragging Bentley out before suing the rich shit for all the money she could give to charity. And also invest in therapy for Bentley, because she’d be damned if a cent of his money went to fix things that he wasn’t even remotely responsible for.

            “A plan?” Dipper came in closer and peered at the runes and wards. He didn’t touch her, didn’t drape all over her like she was his and he was hers. “I was just thinking find Ben and crush this place into dust.”

            Torako tilted her head and grinned a little. It felt plastic on her face. Her eyes ached. “Sounds good to me. Want a pack of gunny bears in exchange for shutting down the Manor defenses?”

            “It’s a deal,” Dipper said. They shook hands. A moment later, there was a harsh crack, the smell of burned ozone, and the gild had melted over splintered gemstones into a mess of dripping gold. It was somehow still elegant. Torako hated it.

            The door, now unshackled by layers of what had to be intricate spellwork, drifted open. Torako reached out, pushed it in, and she and Dipper stepped into Windfall Manor. When she held out her hand, Mizar’s Cultbasher was deposited in it, heavy and comfortable in her grasp. It slid down until the end of it, the hilt of it, pressed into the edge of her palm and pinky finger, grounding her.

            The door closed behind them. Dipper kept his feet on the ground, but that was probably because he liked how his steps echoed in the large reception room around them. Torako looked up and around; the ceiling was like that of a giant greenhouse’s, glass set against glass impossibly smooth. The floor was tile, patterned in giant floral swirls of color. It was cracked, in places, runes and wards and deployment circles cut into unsalvageable bits. Torako swung the bat up to rest against her shoulder.

            It was quiet.

            “Any sign of Ben?” she asked, surveying the empty room around them. It looked like on the end of the far room there was a chair like a throne, but it was empty. There were walls all around, walls of glass. No hallways. No way out except for the way they came in, and they weren’t leaving empty-handed.

            “No,” Dipper said, a tightness in his voice. It sounded like he was on the verge of trembling, but from what Torako couldn’t guess.

            “What about the other one? Lloyd?”

            Dipper didn’t answer immediately. The silence had a cant of unsureness, a measure of disbelief and a dash of exhaustion.

            “Dipper?” Torako turned to look at him. He had risen up, shedding the remains of his human form until he couldn’t be taken for anything but supernatural.

            He avoided her gaze. “I’ll take you to him,” he said, and held out his hand.

            Torako narrowed her eyes, swung the bat off her shoulder. “What price?”

            “Just a small candy bar.” Dipper was quiet. The hair rose up on the back of her neck. Something was wrong, this wasn’t guilt-quiet, this was a dread-quiet.

            “Dipper,” Torako asked, “what’s wrong?”

            “Nothing—” Dipper glanced at her and met her eyes for a second before looking away like _she_ was the one who inspired instinctual fear. “Bentley’s gone, that’s all. Let’s—just get me the candy bar, and I’ll take you to—to Lloyd. Remnit. Him.”

            Torako didn’t want to give the candy bar up until she found out what was _wrong_ with Dipper. The room seemed to yawn around them, the space wide enough to swallow, wide enough to take the mere half-meter between them and twist it into an abyss. The false sunlight peering through was almost oppressive, the sparkling of the split tiles below vicious, like teeth, and Torako was hit with the sudden realization that they needed to fix whatever was between them, without Bentley there to cover up the divide and make it all better. But that was the thing, she thought to herself. Bentley _wasn’t_ there. Bentley had been taken from them.

            Torako stuck out her hand. “Deal,” she said.

            Dipper shook it without ceremony. There was no flash of blue flames. He didn’t smile, roughish and dangerous in the corners or between the press of his teeth. Instead, there was the familiar sensation of being tugged somewhere, and suddenly they were in a bedroom.

            It was dark. The curtains, heavy and thick and embroidered with giant moths, were drawn over one entire wall. She could just barely see the outside light hemmed in on the floor below what had to be windows. Torako walked over to them, traced the exquisite workmanship, the painstakingly stitched forms soft ridges under her fingertips. She looked back at Dipper, who was staring at the bed and the figure under the covers. They were snoring, just slightly. Dipper’s shoulders were slumped, but she couldn’t quite make out his features in the dimness, just the golden glow of his eyes.

            She set the nailbat down, clenched the heavy curtain in her fists, got a feel for the fabric and the heft. “Dipper,” she said, quiet. The relative smallness of the room, the darkness, dampened the sound into something comfortable. Dipper turned his head to look at her.

She tilted her head, held her swathes of curtain up a little. Light billowed stronger onto the ground below, carpeted, spotted with burned magic.

            “Okay,” Dipper said.

            Torako took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, centered herself. _Bentley_ , she told herself, and then she pulled the curtains back as hard as she could.

            Sunlight shone in like a sound, like the sudden blare of a trumpet or the screech of bow against strings, harsh against the preceding silence. The curtains slid, silent, across an invisible track of magical technology. Torako squinted her eyes a little against the invading light, and looked out the window, across the land surrounding them.

            It all seemed so small, from so far up.

            A few moments later, Torako heard the man in the bed groan a little. She turned around, bent down, picked up her nailbat and stood, back to the window. It would disconcert, possibly even frighten, Mr. Remnit. Dipper made no such move, but he was a demon, which was kind of intimidating enough.

            “What the…” the man groaned. He waved a hand at the light coming in. “Wals, I gave you the day off so I could sleep as much as I wanted all day, goddammit.”

            Torako glanced at Dipper. Dipper was still staring at the man, at Lloyd, like he’d broken his favorite toy and then kicked a puppy or two. Alright, then, no help coming from that corner, so Torako opened her mouth and said, “Well, that explains why the place was so gosh darned empty! And why you’re still asleep at four in the afternoon. You’re wasting daylight!”

            God, she was turning into her _dad_.

            The figure on the bed didn’t move for a long moment. Then he snuggled back down into the blankets and pillows, grumbling something about awful dreams.

            Torako closed her eyes. Then, she opened them and looked up like the ceiling held answers, but no, there were just—lots of images of coquettish, nearly-naked people of all species and gender. One of them winked at her. She felt herself flush, and looked back at the bed. Torako was hit with the sudden thought that maybe, possibly, this man was naked under the covers.

            Torako steeled herself. She had endured horrors few others had, had seen dismembered corpses that still gave her nightmares, had come home to an empty apartment and evidence of kidnapping. She could handle one naked man.

            “Sorry, buddy,” she said. “This isn’t a dream. Isn’t even a nightmare. Out of luck there. Yo, Dip, do you mind making our friend here a bit more aware of the situation he’s in?”

            Dipper stared at her. She pantomimed pulling the sheets off. He stared at her longer, then looked back at the sheets, at the figure stubbornly underneath them, and then lifted his eyebrows in what was clearly a, _he might be naked under there, do you really actually want me to do that?_ gesture.

            She pressed her lips together and nodded once, short. It was her best attempt at a nonverbal _no, I really don’t, but this is probably the best._

            Dipper slowly reached his hand out and curled his fingers into the folds of the sheets. He looked back at her, almost pleading. She tilted her head at him and held up a free hand, because what else could they do?

            Wide-eyed, Dipper pressed his lips together. He tugged the sheet once, sharp, but not hard enough to dislodge it. Before Torako could do more than wonder why exactly he was being so weird about it, he opened his mouth and spoke. “I don’t think you want to know what we’re going to do if you don’t get up.”

            Lloyd Remnit shifted in bed, turning around enough to get a glimpse of Dipper. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He definitely wasn’t wearing a shirt. Torako looked just enough to get an idea of physique; arms a little toned, but mostly old muscle and normal levels of fat for his age. He was a bit aged, Torako thought, but more like uncle than grandfather. Then he leaned back against the headboard, all casual, and smirked down at Dipper.

            “Well, aren’t you a treat?” Lloyd Remnit said. He looked Dipper up and down. Dipper stepped back a little, clearly unnerved by this turn of events. Torako felt a well of anger at Remnit and stepped forward to put herself between Dipper—who clearly knew something she didn’t and was made uncomfortable by it—and the man they’d come to interrogate. That was working well.

            The moment she did that, though, Remnit burst into action, slapping a hand against the closest bedpost. It lit up for a split second before cracking further, green sparks flying out to die, harmless, mid-air. Remnit stared at the bedpost. Torako smiled as she finished blocking Remnit’s view of Dipper.

            “Yeah, we took care of that,” she said, affecting nonchalance and confidence. Even though the room was small, everything in here was clearly quality that would take a decent chunk out of her parents’ paychecks, even before donating a great deal of it to charity. “Any more questions?”

            Remnit squinted at her. “Could you get out of the way? I’d at least like some eye candy to look at.”

            Torako’s smile thinned. She made sure to heft her bat up again, so that Remnit clearly saw what exactly was in store for him if he didn’t stop with his shit. “I’m not eye candy enough for you?” she asked.

            “He’s more my taste,” Remnit said.

            Dipper put a hand on her shoulder. She raised her eyebrows at Remnit, even though she was really raising them at Dipper. There was a moment of silence from him, and then Dipper said, “It’s okay, Ra. If he wants eye candy, I’ll give him eye candy.”

            Torako obliged, and stepped out of the way. Dipper strode past her, got closer to Remnit, and sat on the bed. Remnit seemed a bit taken aback by this gesture.

            Then Dipper held up a hand, and Remnit recoiled, screaming. Sweets poured onto the bed. Torako connected the dots and had to swallow hard at the mental image that came forward.

            “What the fuck!” Remnit screamed, on the other side of the bed. “What the fuck??”

            “You don’t have to eat it,” Dipper said, quiet. “You just said you wanted to look, right? So here it is.”

            “What the fuck are you?? Why are you here, holy _fuck_!”

            Torako shifted so that she could tackle Remnit if need be. He might try to run. They weren’t going to let him. She would break his arm before letting him go. There was a wardrobe half in the way, but it would slow him down just enough to help her catch him easier.

            “We’re here for an important friend of ours,” Dipper said. There was an undercurrent to his voice that had Remnit paling. “And last thing we found pointed to you.”

            “In case you need reminding,” Torako said, an easy smile back on her face, “it has to do with a fridge you commissioned. Could transport live bodies?”

            Remnit’s dark eyes, somewhat familiar, flickered between the two of them. “I have…hypothetical knowledge of that,” he whispered, then wet his lips. “What’s…in it for me?”

            Torako laughed a little. “What do you think is in it for you?”

            “You should probably answer wisely,” Dipper said, eyes clear, still on the bed. Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t see how wrong he was arranging himself into something casual, unaffected.

            “I…” Remnit said. “I…didn’t get to where I am now by settling.”

            Torako smirked, but she was watching Remnit’s hands. They were twitching in a way that seemed half-controlled. She thought about the level of magic set into the house, how much everything relied on it.

            “Dipdop,” she said.

            “I know,” he said. “He won’t do anything.”

            Remnit’s movements faltered. “What?”

            “He won’t want to tell us anything either,” Dipper said. He shifted. “If he’s anything like the man I once knew…is this about family, Lloyd?”

            “I haven’t met you before,” Remnit said. He took a step back, back against the tall, ornate wardrobe Torako had noticed earlier. It was very clean, light glinting off it like the wood was alive. Torako’s smile felt frozen to her face.

            “Not that you remember,” Dipper said. “And I guess that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? I’m not family, somebody else is. The somebody who has Bentley.”

            “What are you even on about?” Remnit snapped. He slapped his hand against the wardrobe, transferred whatever spell he’d been crafting between his fingers into the wood. It crackled, distorted, then shot at both Torako and Dipper. Torako tucked into a smooth roll and slammed the nailbat into the wood hard enough to punch holes, the enchantments on the bat combating with the enchanted wardrobe.

            Dipper had tessered right up against Remnit, who sucked in a quick breath and stilled. Torako stood, watched.

            “Bentley,” Dipper said, “is my family. You were once, Stan. But that was lifetimes ago, so I can’t blame you for not being now, right?”

            “Dipdop,” Torako said.

            “What the fuck?” Remnit whispered.

            “Except I will blame you,” Dipper said. He set his hand against Remnit’s forehead. “Your loyalty has been given to the wr̢o͏n͏̢g̨҉ person this time, Stan. Tell me where m̘ͦͥ͆ͯy̳̩̘͉̑̉̄̀̇ͨͦ ̡̈͊̚s̬̹̗͎̲͂̈́i̥̩ͅst͇̙͙̝͓e̝̹̟̹̮̯͒̒ͧ̇̈́r̴̗̝̖̭̫͌̒̚ ̧͓͈̠̯ͦ̅́ͤ̑̆ͦi͓̞͕̮͉̳̫͡s̡̩̪̰̋̌ͧ̏.”

            Torako’s smile slid off her face. She stepped forward.

            “I don’t know,” Remnit said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Who did you commission the stasis fridge for?” Dipper crooned. “I will give you what you desire most if you just tell me who you commissioned that stasis fridge for.”

            Torako took another step. “Dipper, stop. You’re getting out of hand. Dipper, stop.”

            Remnit paused. Then, he laughed, hard and long, startling Dipper enough that he pulled away just a little, just enough for something in the air to loosen and for Torako to breathe a little easier.

            “Nothing,” Remnit said, “is more important than family.”

            Dipper didn’t even breathe. He canted his head back towards Torako. “I agree,” he said. Torako read the question in the quirk of his pointed ear, in the set of his hand on his hip. She pursed her lips.

            “There’s no other way?” she asked.

            “Stan is stubborn,” Dipper said. “I admired that, once.”

            Torako readjusted the grip on her nailbat. “A bag of Octopods and a bag of Chocolate Chicken Waffle Chips?”

            “And a lock of hair,” Dipper said.

            Remnit had lost some of the courage he’d pulled together only moments before. It had, Torako thought, evidently fled in the pieces he’d finally put together. “No,” he said. “My wards, they’re too strong.”

            “And a lock of my hair,” Torako said, “in return for the knowledge of who took Bentley, and where they live.”

            “Who _are_ you?” Remnit hissed. He held up a hand, desperate energy crackling in it, and shoved it into Dipper. Dipper looked down at it, then grinned at Remnit.

            “Ḓ̸̥̯̈ͣ͌ͪ̇̏̎͢e̸̥͕̼̎̂͂ͤa̶̡̼̰͉͓ͭ̽̉ͤ̊ͭͅl̀̈̍̋͡͏̥̙͖̤̻̬͍̠ͅ,” he said, blue flaring high, and set his hands on Remnit’s head like he was going to pluck the strings of a harp, delicate but firm.

            Remnit didn’t scream. He let out a hitched sob. Dipper withdrew something from Remnit’s mind, and then flung it out. A heartbeat, two, and then Torako _knew_.

            Torako stared at Remnit. He was collapsed on the ground, a puppet with cut strings, a man whose base morals had been violated. Torako remembered Bentley, kneeling at his father’s funeral, accepting orange lilies with shaking hands. She remembered dark, flat eyes. Something dark and horrible and scared welled up in the pit of her chest, nearly choking her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to _kill_ Remnit.

            “How dare you,” Torako told Remnit, voice shaking. “How fucking _dare_ you hide behind family to justify their actions. You fucking supported them! What the actual fuck?”

            “You took it from me,” Remnit whispered to his hands. “You _took_ it from me.”

            “And your nibling took my _partner_ from me!” Torako screamed.

            “Torako?” Dipper asked.

            Torako lifted the nailbat. Her hand hurt from how tight she was gripping it. She wanted to drive Mizar’s Cultbasher into Remnit’s skull, over and over. How dare he. How _dare_ he.

            Bentley was more important.

            “Dipper,” Torako said. She dropped the bat, stared at Remnit, heartbeat roaring in her ears. “I will give you another bag of candy, one in my bag, to make sure he can’t warn _anybody_ about what’s coming for them. He can’t tell anybody we were here. He can’t tell anybody we’re coming. He can’t tell anybody what was done to him. He can’t let anybody know that they’re in danger.”

            “I mean, okay, but Torako?”

            “Do we have a _deal_ or not, Alcor?” Torako snarled. Remnit flinched at Alcor’s name, started crying.

            Dipper was silent for several rapid heartbeats, then he said, “Deal.” Torako’s backpack lightened again, and Dipper put his hand on Remnit’s head again. Blue flames flared, then died, and Remnit curled over, hiding his face in his hands.

            “Let’s get out of here,” Torako said, after a long moment. She felt vindicated, and terrible, and angry and scared because _Bentley had told them he was Mizar._

            “Torako, who was it?” Dipper caught her arm, talons digging in just a little. Torako looked into his eyes. Her body was light, carried on a wave of turbulent emotion.

            “Once we get out,” Torako said, and no sooner had she spoken were they on the lawn by the wardstones, right at the beginning of the gravel path. The sky was still, there was no birdsong, and the grass under their feet was artificial at best. Everything was wide and open and wrong.

            “Tell me,” Dipper said. She couldn’t stall any longer.

            “Dr. Fantino,” Torako said. “Their name is Vallian. They gave Bentley orange lilies at Philip’s funeral.”

            Dipper froze, eyes wide in horror. The air was suddenly like syrup, pressing down on her shoulders and leaving her slow, heavy. “The one that Bentley…”

            “Cursed.” Torako gripped Dipper’s hand with everything she had. She laughed a little at a sudden thought, high and on the hysterical side. “Bentley really did piss off somebody rich, I guess.”

            Dipper snarled. The air around him turned dark, almost misty. Everything around them seemed like it was moving, but Torako felt nothing. His wings curled and grew into a shroud around them, at once shielding and suffocating. “I̢̛͉̳̓̓ͯ̔ ̵̶̷͙͉͔͈̱̫͚̑̀̏̐̌ͫ͒ͅw̷̝̜̜͙̯̻ͧ̇̑̍͌ͅi̶̸̗̲̿͆l̵̖̻͈͈̙͙̱͉͑ͤ̽ͤ͑̇̔͢l̹̤̥̼̼ͦͦ̾̉͜ ̞̬͇̥̖̻̖̓̊̾̓͌̑̿̃͝d̸̶̮͍̠͇̂ͥe̛̝̻̖̰̥͕̓͌̍ͤs̛͕̭̟̔͗ť̬͔͍̍̽ͩ̌̚͜r͋͂̀̊͏͏͙͈̥o͔̪̥̲̠̎͛ͧ͢ȳ͍ ̯͇͇̗̱̘̭͈̻́ͮ̊̌̊̇̒͝ḩ̤̠̘̮̳̠̞̐ͭͩͤ͡i̴̼ͯͩ̈́͐ͣ̋m̪̫̠͑̓ͩ͊́͆ͥͩ̇͘͟,” Dipper said. “I̤̣̭̹̻̾̽̓͊͋̍̏̈́’̺͈̪̲̪̖̘͂̿̈̔͞l̞͇͈͔̩̩̙͙̗̊̋ͧ̚͘l̢̧̰̾̀ͩ̓ͭͭ͋͘—̛̬͕̗͍͇̲̜̫ͬͪ̇̐̾͘ͅ”

            Torako’s phone chimed, the chime from Lata’s parents. It cut through the syrup around her; the last she’d heard from Lata’s parents hadn’t exactly been positive news. Her heart in her throat, she pulled it out, navigated to messages. She choked, her fear rising above her anger. Bentley was important, but Lata was—Lata was a _baby_.

            “Dipper,” she said. “Lata’s missing. Lata’s—we have to find Lata.”

            Dipper let out a noise that was more squealing tires and thunder than human, tugged her close, and they left Windfall Manor more abruptly than they’d arrived.           

* * *

            Bentley had lost track of time.

            He also lost track of what it’s like to actually chew or ingest food orally; all of the nutrients his body requires have been supplied to him so far by a NutriPatch, even though those are really only supposed to be used short term. He should know, he visited Torako in the hospital and got that lecture from the nurse on Torako’s behalf. That had been a little uncomfortable. Maybe not as uncomfortable as the saline drip embedded in his arm—that was sure to leave a scar and he was high-key avoiding those thoughts—but certainly not fun.

            Bentley had also lost track of what it’s like to move more than five steps at a time. He was always strapped down to the bed when people come in to check his vitals, take DNA samples for some awful reason that he would freak out over if he thought about it, so he didn’t. He also was reduced to dragging around his IV drip with him, because there was some sort of non-tamper seal on the drip and he hadn’t managed to get his hands on anything that would allow him to sigil it off. He wanted to save the last-resort of using his own blood as a medium until he had a clearer chance to escape.

            What Bentley _had_ gained, had slowly been gaining, was energy.

            Not quickly. No, residual, fragmented nightmares kept him from actually getting the sleep he needed to make a decent recovery. At the same time, he also wasn’t being actively sucked of energy in order to fuel his own nightmares and keep him locked in a mirror hellscape funland of his own imagining, so, the pros were outweighing the cons at the moment. Bentley was going to take whatever the fuck he could get.

            Which, he thought as he sat in a corner in the dark, pale hospital gown pooling around him, wasn’t exactly a lot.

            He pressed his chin to the valley between his knees, looked out to where he knew the vase of orange lilies sat in a protective alcove. For somebody who professed not to ascribe to acting based on illogical emotion, Bentley thought, Dr. Fantino was really, almost hilariously petty. It made him really angry.

            Even after what felt like at least a week of knowing the lilies were there, they made Bentley want to cry. The slight against his father had been turned into something worse, something to taunt and goad Bentley with rather than an honest, if despicable, act. Dr. Fantino, Bentley knew, was using Philip to get under Bentley’s skin, and it was working. When he wasn’t too exhausted to feel, or too stressed and sad to think, Bentley was constantly _furious_. Dr. Fantino being absent whenever Bentley was awake only fanned the flames higher; they had the gall to kidnap him, subject him to torture that was sure to set him back years’ worth of therapy, and then? They didn’t even? Interact? With him?

            Bentley hugged himself tight, digging his hands into his legs. He was losing weight. His hair was uncomfortably long. His nails were kept trimmed and soft, but they would be longer than he was used to if they hadn’t been. Bentley was losing time.

            He closed his eyes, started to doze in the corner. He woke an indeterminable amount of time later, feeling space closing in around him, crushing him, welding his throat shut and unable to make a single sound.

            Bentley yelled at the walls to make himself feel better until nothing came out but a raspy, whistley noise. Then he couldn’t make noise with his throat, and it was awful, but drumming his fingers on the floor helped, standing and moving just because he could helped. When he was able to think again, Bentley set his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes.

He lifted his hand, one finger outstretched, and began to trace the shape of sigils into the wall. “Fire,” he said in a whisper, tracing fire and then breaking it. “Water. Earth. Lightning. Air. Connection,” and so on, creating and detonating in his mind’s eye. Every so often, he traced Alcor’s circle into the wall. Said please. Waited long moments in which he knew nothing would happen, but hoped anyways, before moving on to more complicated, more powerful, more theoretically dangerous things. Bentley wondered, absently, why Dipper hadn’t come yet.

   Then, the lights came on and they gassed the room to knock him out. He drooped down the side of the wall, throat sore, and watched the blurry images of the nurses come in to bundle him back into bed. He was harmless. His limbs didn’t move. They showed no fear.

Bentley was losing time, but there was nothing he could do but bide it.

* * *

            Lata was in Australia. Lata was safe. Lata was happily playing with a very tired woman Torako’s never met, who Lata apparently has and who Lata had also successfully conned into letting her visit. The woman did not yet know this. Lata had whispered it gleefully in Torako’s ear because Torako was the Fun One, right before Dipper had pulled Torako abruptly aside to demand they destroy everything Fantino held dear.

            Torako had to convince Dipper that that did not mean it was time to lambast Fantino’s house, under her breath and doing her best not to let the woman whose house they were in know that, you know, she had let a demon inside.

            “It’s _home_ ,” Torako hissed to Dipper. “Yeah it’s where he lives too, but you’ll go overboard and cause another international incident, beyond the mysterious glass found in the middle of the desert. Yes, I saw that article, you didn’t hide it nearly well enough.”

            “Bentley could be there,” Dipper hissed back, his face inhuman because he wasn’t looking at the Australian woman—Torako thought her name was Tom, or Tam, or something. “We need to get Bentley and _make that man pay_.”

            “We don’t even know if Ben’s in the house,” Torako said.

            “We don’t even know that he isn’t,” Dipper retorted. Their faces were close in order to facilitate better hearing at lower decibels, and also in order to increase the intensity of their glaring at each other.

            “Whatchu doing?” Lata asked, flopping over Torako’s back. Torako tipped forward at the unexpected weight. Her face smooshed into Dipper’s, her nose almost jamming into his eye.

            “This is a private conversation,” Dipper said, tense but trying not to make Lata cry. Torako braced her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself back upright. Lata giggled.

            “This’s private property, and it’s seven fucking thirty in the fucking morning,” the Australian Woman Tom Slash Tam said.  “You got something to say, say it loud’n clear.”

            Dipper and Torako exchanged a look. Torako turned to face Tom Slash Tam, and said in the flattest tone she could manage, “Lata did not tell you that their parents had no idea they were going to Australia.”

            Tom Slash Tam stared. “What.”

            “I got a text, just earlier today—” which was not a lie, just a very misleading turn of phrase “—in a panic about where Lata had disappeared off to. I need to let them know where they are. Dipper thinks we should return immediately. I think you need to be told what’s up.” That was a lie. They hadn’t even discussed it.

            Tom Slash Tam gaze shifted to the limpet on Torako’s back. They had their face pressed into the back of Torako’s neck. “Lata,” Tom Slash Tam said.

            Lata whined and squeezed Torako’s neck tighter. Torako choked a little and tapped Lata’s crossed arms furiously.

            Tom Slash Tam crouched down lower. “Lata,” she said, voice low. “Did you lie to me?”

            Lata whined again and kicked their feet against Torako’s butt. Torako pried their arms from around her neck and breathed a little easier, but didn’t move to make Lata face the other woman.

            “Lata,” Dipper said. Torako glanced at him. His eyes were white and brown again, which was disconcerting every time she saw them like that. “Answer Tommy, please.”

            Lata said something into Torako’s neck.

            “Speak up, please,” Torako said.

            “I said I don’t feel _they_ right now, I feel _she_ ,” Lata said, directly into Torako’s ear.

            Tommy nodded. “That’s fine, thank you for telling us. But Lata, did you lie to me about coming over?”

            Lata paused. “No,” she said in a bald-faced lie.

            Torako raised her eyebrows at Tommy. Tommy raised hers right back. They shared the look that adults do when kids decide to be more difficult than the situation calls for, and then Tommy pressed on.

            “Then did…Torako, was it? Right, Torako. Then did Torako lie?”

            Lata paused again. Torako knew that she was going to be thrown under the bus as last-minute sacrifice when Lata said, “Yes.”

            “So,” Tommy drawled, “you didn’t actually try to pull the wool over my eyes by fabricating—making up—several messages saying that yes, they’d be glad to let you come see me, yes they were happy to’ve meet me and make sure I wasn’t some sort of creep after their kid and I made a real good impression, can you take our kid in a couple days?”

            Torako did not point out that the whole situation was unrealistic. She honestly didn’t understand _how_ Tommy could have been fooled by a five year old.

            “Yes,” Lata said. She dug her hands into Torako’s shoulders, and Torako hissed in discomfort. “I’m only five.”

            Tommy narrowed her eyes at Torako. Torako sighed, pulled out her phone, and navigated to the message in question. Tommy took the phone, read the message, and sighed back at Torako. “I’m a fuckwit,” Tommy said, before pulling out her own phone to call Lata’s parents and walking a few steps away.

            Lata leaned into Torako and whispered, loudly, “You sold me out!”

            Torako looked, unimpressed, at Dipper. At the look on his face, her expression faltered. “Dipper?” she asked.

            “Are you done?” Dipper asked. He’d sunk his fingers into the floor, curved and rigid in ways human hands were never meant to be. Torako’s heart sunk, and she felt Lata scrunch down more behind Torako’s back. “Lata is fine. Lata is safe. We should be finding Bentley.”

            Torako narrowed her eyes. “We’re _not_ going to the CalFed.”

            “It’s our only clue,” Dipper hissed.

            “And they will _know_ you’re there,” Torako said, straightening up. Lata slid off her. “Because you will have no chill while you’re there, and then they’ll find out that I’m involved, and we’ll never be let back into the country.”

            Dipper snarled. His eyes flashed black and gold before they turned back to brown and white. “You’re worried about being let back _in_ to the country?”

            “My family lives there,” Torako snarled right back, nastiness blooming in her. “We are not putting them in danger.”

            “They won’t be in danger.”

            “Tell that to the _glass_ in the _Sahara Desert_ ,” Torako said. She leaned forward and bared her teeth. Dipper bared his right back, sharp like sharks’ and wide enough to clamp around her throat. Torako didn’t back down.

            “Do you even _lo̕v̡e_ Bentley?” Dipper sneered, and it was like he’d stabbed her in the heart. “You’re messing around here and he’s in the hands of an egotistical _shit_ who knows who he _is_ and if you  l̸o̸v͠ed̢ ̡ him, you’d go _s̛͝͡av̵͡e͘ ̵h̵̵̡im͢_.”

            Torako moved through shock, to hurt, to grief and then back to anger fast enough that if it had been turns on a roller coaster, she’d have suffered whiplash. She surged forward, pushing her face up into Dipper’s and grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “Who was the _fuckhead_ who ran off and wasn’t there for Bentley in the first fucking place?” she said, voice low, deep like it was coming from her chest.

            Dipper’s face twisted in guilt and fury. His eyes flicked from her eyes down to just below her chin. She lifted it, exuding as much _I’d like to see you try_ as she could. Deep down, underneath her hurt and anger, something was screaming at her to back down, to get away and to stop threat-posturing in front of something that could crush her without a second thought.

            “What the fuck is going on here?”

            Torako blinked. She remembered, suddenly, where they were, who they were with. She realized, a split second after remembering, that Dipper’s face was sporting some decidedly unhuman features, and she tugged Dipper in closer so that Tommy couldn’t see. Torako looked up at Tommy.

            “We’re…fighting,” she said.

            Lata was standing next to Tommy. Her eyes looked suspiciously shiny, and Torako watched as she tugged on Tommy’s well-worn shirt. “They said Uncle Ben is gone, and they gotta find him.”

            Tommy crossed her arms. “I think you need to explain what batshit fuckery is going on. Not on the floor. We paid for the fucking couches, and so you’re going to use them and be civilized about it, not like a couple of pixies fighting over a scrap of magic in the local tarot reader’s dumpbin. “

            Dipper stood. Torako knew that he hadn’t put his human guise back on by how Tommy inhaled sharply and took a step back, herding Lata behind herself.

            “We don’t have time,” Dipper said. There was a buzz against Torako’s skin, like a cacophony of cicadas pressing into her. She took a deep breath. “Bentley isn’t safe, he is o͘u҉rs, he is _m̧i̸͟n͏e̵̴_ , and he _n͢͏̸e̷̴̕e̴͟͢ḑ̸͏s͟͞͠ ͜t̶҉o͜͠ b͝ȩ ͝s̛̛͜av͡͏ȩ͢͞d̡̛͟_.”

            Tommy looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed. Torako stood up, angling herself between Tommy and Dipper. She didn’t know which one of them she was supposed to end up stopping, if it came to blows.

            “Dipper,” Torako said. “I told you, going to Fantino’s house isn’t going to help anything.”

            Dipper dug his hand into her arm (again, what was _with_ him and her arm lately) and spun her around. Something inside her strained at the manhandling. “Y̴̡o̶̵̢u͜ k̨ņow̢͘ ̷͡no͜t͡h͝i̶n͞g of where he is,” he said, static peppering his voice and burrowing beneath her skin. The tone, the words, made that strained something snap, and Torako stood tall. “You are m̢͟͟͠͠o̡̡͜r̷̴̶͟ţa҉͏̛l̵̶͢ ̢̢͢͞  and you can’t b̴e̵̢gin͠͠ t͠͞҉o͢ ̕u̢̕n̶d̡̢͢e̡r҉̴s̢t̴̢͞a̴n͏͟d͡ ̷͏w̶h͡a̢̕t̡ ͞it’̴̧͟s̡ l̴i̵͝k̕e—”

            “I love him too,” Torako said, pushing right back, grabbing his arm right back and squeezing tight, curling her fingers as much into claws as she could. He had melted back into his suit, void-black and snow-white and intimidating as all fuck to people who didn’t know him, which was most of the planet and more. She knew him, though. She wasn’t fucking intimidated by his fancy-ass suit or his impossible fabric or even his goddamn teeth. Torako stared him down, using her height to her advantage. If he wanted to float and be taller that way, he’d have to shove her face out of the way. “I love him, I told you I love him more than I love myself—”

            “C̷l̴ęa̵̸͜r̡͢͞l̸y yo̧̕͘u͢ ͜d̴̛o҉̧n’̷͘t̛̕͟,̷͘͠ ̢b̡̛ȩc̷̡a̶̡u͝s̶͠e y̷͡ou̸̕ ҉a̵r̵͟e̵n̵̡’̷̧t̢͜͢ ̴͡ w̴͡i̴̡͝l̶͡l̵͜͡҉i̕҉n̕g̢͡҉ t̸͠ơ̴͠—͟͞”

            “I do, you absolute fuckface, and you _also_ don’t know where he is, that’s the whole fucking reason he’s still not safe—”

            Somebody was crying, but Torako didn’t care because Dipper needed to be shut down and also kicked a little, probably.

            “I kn̶ow͏ m̸ore than y̧ou, y̵ou̧ w͝oul̸d ̶kn̡o͢w ͢nothi͠ng ҉i̷f̸ it ̵w̵eren’t̢—͝”

            “And neither would you, because you _left_ , you left and went off to have a fucking pity party instead of being with us—”

            “HEY!”

            Torako, without looking, snapped over her shoulder, “Shut up and stay out of it.”

            Dipper hiss-snarled from around her shoulder. His wings had come out, sharp and wicked and shadow. Torako drew herself up even further and pushed down on his arm.

            “Stop _l̛͠o̡̧͝o̷̷̧͘͞m̴̴i҉̨̛n̸̢͠͞͏g͠҉̵̕_ ,” Dipper growled.

            “Stop _hurting me_ ,” Torako growled right back.

            “Jus̶t̡ ͟imagi͡ne wh̴at͞ Bȩntl̵ȩy’s g̛oinģ thro̷ug̴h͘,̡” Dipper said, “bec͞au̷se y͏o̢u ̧woưl̷d͞n’͠t ͘l̷e͠t̢ m͏e̛ ͏ _t͏e̴a̛r ̢͞t̸͞h͏̸a҉t̶̷̨ p͢e͘r҉s̷̷on͠’̧s̴ ҉h̸͜o̢m͟e̡͠͠ ̷͝͡a̕͜p̸a̢͏r̸̡͡t̴҉ ̵̧t̕͞ǫ͝ ̵fin̨͟d ͟͝him̕͠͏.̧_ ”

            “Just imagine what Bentley would feel,” Torako said right back, “when he found out you decimated the place he grew up because _you weren’t thinking straight_.”

            “J̛u͜s͜t̡ i̴͝m͢a҉g̸͝i͢͢ne͏̧,” Dipper started, but never finished because suddenly there was a deluge of icy water being splashed on them. Torako shrieked. Dipper jumped up in the air and stayed there, blinking the water out of his eyes. Torako wiped soaking hair from out of her face and tried to process what had just happened.

            “You get to clean that up, by the way,” Tommy said. Torako looked over, finally, and Tommy was holding Lata in one arm so that Lata could press her face into Tommy’s chest. There was a bucket in her other hand. “Towels’re in the bathroom. Get your arses dry and mop the floor up and then come sit on the damned couch. Stop making the kid cry.”

            Torako, dripping water, exchanged a guilty glance with Dipper. Dipper caught her eye, and looked away.

            Yeah. Torako nodded, fight gone, and turned around to go get some towels. If she took a while coming back, and if her eyes were a little red when she finally emerged, then nobody would say anything.

* * *

            Dipper curled up on one end of the couch. Torako was curled up on the other, a towel around her shoulders. There was as much space as possible between them.

            Dipper hated and needed it all at once.

            Across from them, on a ratty armchair that looked as though it was held up only by layers and layers of threadbare spells, Tommy nursed something slightly alcoholic and stared them down. Crackles of amber irritation lanced through her aura. She’d sent Lata to another room to play with their dog. Dipper hadn’t even noticed the dog, coming in, too caught up in Fantino, and Bentley, and the all-encompassing need to save and fix.

            “So,” Tommy said, finally. “I’ve got a fuckin demon in my house.”

            Dipper scrunched his shoulders and crossed his arms. He looked away at the bookshelf, which held an eclectic collection of physical books, datapads, storage drives and also various animal skulls.

            “Which one is he?” Tommy asked. Dipper hunched over more and noted one book was about astrophysics. More specifically, he realized, the mingling of magic with astrophysics, and postulation as to whether or not there was a limit to how far magic extended from Earth, and if it was an Earth-only phenomenon or one that extended throughout the entire universe, or something inbetween.

            “Alcor,” Torako said, quiet and not quite like herself. Dipper wondered if she’d ever been herself, since Bentley had been taken. He’d been too wrapped up in himself to notice.

            “Of course,” Tommy drawled. “Of fucking course. I threw water on one of the most powerful known entities in the universe.”

            Dipper thought of the glimpses of his future, aching loneliness and power enough to burn whatever he touched. He didn’t like thinking about that, so he started thinking about magic and astrophysics again, while half-paying attention to the conversation going on in the same room.

            “It happens,” Torako said.

            “And you!” Tommy said, louder. “You were going nose to nose with that overpowered soulsucker, what the fuck are you?”

            “His…friend? Partner?” Torako paused. “I’m human, if that’s what you’re asking.”

            Dipper switched his attention to the couch under his hand. He started to trace the weave with his claws, dulling their edges so that he didn’t snap the threads on accident.

            “You arse-tipped dick-waffling crazy shit,” Tommy said. “And there’s…another one of you, right? The one that’s missing?”

            Guilt and grief and anger gripped Dipper so tight he forgot himself, punching a hole into the couch. Seized by terror, he checked that connection between himself and Mizar again—still dampened, still there, butterfly-wingbeat-weak against his senses.

            “My _couch_ ,” Tommy said.

            “Sorry,” Dipper said. He glanced over at Tommy, aura a confusing mix of colors, and then away. “Sorry.”

            “Yeah,” Torako said. “Bentley. Um. It’s a long story.”

            “That’s fine,” Tommy said. “Give me the important shit.”

            “Um. I guess. Bentley got kidnapped, about five days ago? I can’t remember exactly. I was useless the first day, and after that things have gone so—so fast. We finally found out who took him, today, and we know why, but we don’t—we don’t agree on what to do next.”

            “Shit,” Tommy said. “And you’ve only had each other for company for five days?”

            Torako laughed. Dipper concentrated on curling in on himself as much as he could at the bitterness there. “Yeah. We—we’re kind of a mess, aren’t we?”

            “Fuckin understandable, though,” Tommy said. She paused. “Is it normal for him, to, uh, do that?”

            Torako shifted. She huffed a little, but when she spoke there was a bit of a smile in her voice. “Dipper, your tween is showing.”

            Dipper looked back at her. She seemed a little larger than before, and with an aura dulled with emotional exhaustion it meant that he’d shrunk again. Dipper put his face in his hands.

            “I take that as a yes.” Tommy was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, drink held loosely in one hand. “Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen, though.”

            The front door opened. A voice floated in, strong and upbeat. “Darling, you called just a bit ago? Is everything all right?”

            Dipper stared at Tommy over the tips of his claws. Tommy took a long, languid sip of her drink before answering. “In the living room, Filara! We’ve got some…disastrously interesting guests. Lata’s in the bedroom with Fuzzles.”

            “That’s right,” Torako said, a little faintly. “You have a wife.”

            “I do,” Tommy said, a kind of proud, self-satisfied grin on her face.

            “She…going to be okay with this?”

            “Well, she might be able to help you. She knows a bit of everything. Smart woman, my Filz.” Tommy’s grin took on a shit-eating cant. “Also the reaction’ll be balls hilarious.”

            Dipper groaned. Pathetic. All-powerful demon and Acacia’s troublemaking nature always made him quail.

            “What’s that about your balls?” Filara asked. Dipper looked at Filara, and then kept looking, because that was _Lionel_ and what was Lionel doing married to _Acacia?_

            “Our guests might have a couple of questions for you,” Tommy said. She gestured to the both of them, sad and huddled on the couch, like she was unveiling some great and wonderful monument to the world.

            “Oh, I’m happy to answer…” Filara looked from Torako to Dipper and trailed off. She stared. Dipper stared back, still lost in the mental gymnastics of _but this is my dad but that is my niece but this is my dad and my niece married????_ and only distantly aware of the fact that he looked like a prepubescent non-human in an impossible suit.

            There was a beat of silence born of mutual surprise.

            “Uh,” Filara said. “Darling?”

            Tommy took another sip of her drink. Out of the corner of his eye, Dipper could see smug pinpricks of orange-lilac in her aura. “Yes, Filz?”

            “Ignoring the gorgeous woman on our couch,” Filara said, “there’s…a thirteen-year-old on our couch?”

            Torako made a gurgling noise. Dipper was almost impressed. Most people pegged him for ten or eleven. Nobody _overshot_ his age (even if it was just barely) in this form.

            “Kind of,” Tommy said.

            “And he’s…they’re…she’s…not…human?”

            “That’s speciesist. Wow Filz. I expected better of you.”

            Torako kind of half-raised her hand. “He’s a demon.”

            “Yes, a demon. Thank you, gorgeous woman whose name I don’t know.” Filara took a half step forward as Torako gurgled again, and shifted her corrective lenses. He almost hadn’t seen them. “Darling, why is there a demon on our couch?”

            Tommy hummed. “Ask him.”

            Filara took a deep breath, then turned to face Dipper more squarely. “Why are you on our couch?”

            Dipper gestured at Tommy, and every answer except for, “She told me to” escaped his mind in that moment.

            Torako supplemented the information. “I got a text from Lata’s parents. They didn’t know she’d come here, though I think they know now, and they know where the bill for the ticket to get here came from.”

            “Ah.” Filara said. She waved her hand, and a rocking chair appeared from nowhere to settle in next to Tommy’s threadbare monstrosity. Dipper recognized the echo of Lionel’s taste in furniture in the cushions, firm but not flat. “That explains a little more, but not enough. Start from the beginning?”

            Dipper opened his mouth.

            “Not you,” Filara said, and proceeded to point at Torako. Tommy took another smug sip of her alcohol. There was lemon in it. Dipper bet that it was something Torako would like. “You. Mr. Demon seems a little useless information-wise, and no offense but I’m not sure I would trust him. Also,” she said, glancing back at Dipper, “can I get a name so I don’t call you Mr. Demon? It seems a little odd to, especially when you’re being so quiet and polite and not actively bartering for my soul or my left arm.”

            “I’m Tyrone,” said Dipper.

            “He’s Alcor,” said Tommy a heartbeat later.

            Filara settled back in her chair with an air of confusion and also mistrust. She looked at Torako.

            “He’s both,” Torako said. “I call him by a nickname. You’d know him as Alcor.”

            “Cool,” Filara said. “Cool cool cool, I’m just going to ignore that he’s Alcor in my sitting room. Please tell me why you’re here and what’s on your mind, Ms. Gorgeous.”

            Torako gurgled again. Then she obliged.

* * *

            “…and then we got into a big fight in front of Lata and your wife,” Torako said before taking a sip of the drink that Filara had insisted on getting for her. Lata had come out at some point, and was clinging to the Hangars’ beagle mix between Torako and Dipper. She was also asleep, so everybody was trying to be as calm as possible. Aside from a couple of tense moments, mostly because Dipper said something snide and Torako said something snide back, they had succeeded.

            “She threw water on us,” Dipper said. “It was effective.”

            Filara hummed. She seemed less concerned with the fact that Dipper was in the room and more preoccupied with what Torako had said. “And you said that Alcor said that he couldn’t feel Bentley very well?”

            Torako nodded. “He can explain it better than I can, obviously.”

            “Explain, please.” Filara pulled a stylus and pad out of what seemed to be thin air. Tommy had long since gone to the kitchen to make food. It was lunchtime. They had been in this house for hours. Torako was very, very hungry.

            “So, it’s like he’s in another dimension,” Dipper said. “Except nobody should be able to do that? So it has to be a pocket dimension, but it doesn’t _feel_ like a pocket dimension. It’s like, there’s more layers between us, muffling everything. I should be able to feel how he feels, but instead it’s hard enough to tell that he’s still alive.”

            “A little creepy, but all right.” Filara jotted down notes, appraised them. “And you said the kidnapper has access to significant funds?”

            “Yes,” Torako said.

            “And also used cutting-edge technology to use a sophisticated but also very traceable way to transport Bentley while in forced stasis slash nightmares?”

            “Also yes.” Torako took a swig of alcohol, closed her eyes at the sharp burn of liquor and citrus. It grounded her. Torako did not necessarily want to become an alcoholic, but by everything good was it helping. She had needed this.

            She also, desperately, needed some of whatever was cooking in the kitchen, because it smelled absolutely wonderful.

“Interesting.” Filara continued taking notes, switching from her right to her left in order to gesture at the bookcase Dipper had been staring at earlier in sullen silence. A couple books and a datapad floated over to her. One title was in a language Torako couldn’t read, and the other was made up of such outdated terminology that Torako could barely understand it was about warding theory.

            “Is it okay to be here, though?” Torako asked. “You came back from somewhere really early in the morning.”

            Filara flapped her hand at Torako. “It’s fine, that contract was paying me pennies for the work they wanted anyways. I only took it because I was bored. I’ll find another short-term job soon enough.”

            “Isn’t the Australian job market kind of bad right now?” Dipper asked. He was leaning back, a little more gangly and teenager than he had been earlier.

            “That’s why I can’t find anything not short-term,” Filara said. “Also why I decided I’d throw my net wide instead of deep, so to speak. More variety of possible jobs. I let Tommy specialize.”

            “Park management?”

            “With endorsements in both mundane and supernatural creature handling,” Filara muttered. She flipped the warding book open to the back, indexed whatever she was looking to find, and then started turning back to the relevant page. “Specifications which are archaic and vestigial leftovers of an age shocked by the sudden appearance of unprecedented species, both sentient and not, but whatever they want, I guess.”

            Torako saw Dipper perk up at the nerdspeak. “I agree,” Dipper said. “It’s literally been over two thousand years since the Transcendence. Why, with the evolution of language, do such—currently—arbitrary classifications exist?  It would make far more sense to align everything on a scale of sentience alone. The laws of science have changed so much, and possibilities have altered to an extent that nullifies the importance of separating non-sentient and originally non-magical creatures from non-sentient and originally magical creatures.”

            “True,” Filara said. “Okapi were once seen as utterly mundane until scientists observed the emergence of magical traits conducive to predator and sustenance detection…”

            Torako tuned them out, looked down at the drink in her shaking hand. She swirled it a little, then watched the tumbler continue to tremble, ever so slightly. Torako admitted to herself, under the safe umbrella of being momentarily ignored, that she was tired. She was stressed, and scared. And she had begun taking it out on Dipper. And maybe, just maybe, Dipper was the same, and he’d started taking it out on her.

            He was unstable without Bentley, even though they kept stressing to him that he _had_ to be stable without Ben. Though, Torako thought, a wry smile on her lips, maybe she wasn’t so different. She felt pretty unstable herself.

            They were going to be lucky to get out of it all in one piece. They were all definitely going to need therapy, group and individual. Torako wanted to laugh and cry, but there was a dull edge to her emotions that pressed the urge down into something less overwhelming. Where were they going to find a therapist that would take them seriously and not report things like Bentley being a reincarnation of Mizar, or Dipper being Alcor, or Torako breaking and entering and bartering for demonic force as a tool to suppress and punish people outside the court of law? Dipper and she had discussed it, back when Bentley had first been taken. Dipper had promised that he’d take care of it, but…somehow, that seemed like a really bad idea. Would it be better than no therapy? Worse?

            Torako didn’t know. She swirled her drink again, then took another swig of it.

            “Torako?”

            She looked up. Filara had a manic gleam in her eyes, which shone a faint purple. Probably from magic exposure. “We figured something out, maybe.”

            “It seems pretty possible,” Dipper said.

            “Lay it on me,” Torako said, and leaned forward.

            “So, this is highly theoretical stuff, and I’m definitely not a specialist in any practical sense so I don’t know how possible it is,” Filara said, drumming her manicured fingers on her knees in excitement. “But because extradimensional travel, like to legitimate other dimensions, is impossible by human means and, Alcor assures me, highly improbable even by demonic means, there’s only an infinitesimally, insignificantly small chance that Bentley has been spirited away to another dimension. Which means that to fit the parameters of ‘not being in this world proper,’ Bentley has to be in a pocket dimension. Which, in and of itself, is not sufficient, because Alcor can sense Mizar through those, right?”

            Dipper nodded vigorously. 

            “Have to wonder how your kidnapper knew how to counteract that, but no matter. Might just be plain paranoia, which is healthy to have when kidnapping a Mizar attached to a very very powerful demon. Anyways!” Filara flicked up a screen and began to draw a quick sketch. It wasn’t very artistic. “so you have the pocket dimension, with Bentley in it, with Alcor here, and there’s extra stuff inbetween. It has to stop demons from entering. More than that, it has to stop a very strong, the strongest, demon from even _sensing_ through it. Which is hard. It’s like, you have a window, so you can’t pass through the window, but you can see through it and sometimes even hear through it, right?”

            “I get that,” Torako said. She set her drink on her left knee. “So something that would stop that would be, like…sigils, right?”

            Filara blinked, stopped mid-drawing of a window with a person looking out of it. “Actually, yes, maybe? But there aren’t too many people who use sigils to that kind of degree, and they might be a little too finicky to mesh with a pocket dimension the way this kind of near-airtight technology requires. As it is, the pocket dimension is probably a bit destabilized by this. The theory is old, but incredibly difficult to actually execute. So if you’re looking for something reliable…”

            Torako snapped her fingers as she connected the dots. She grinned. “Wards.”

            “Right. Runes don’t pack enough punch and can get a little frisky, but wards are solid. They’re dependable. Reliable. They’re like a middle-aged rottweiler.” Filara drew a stick dog on the screen between them, then put a smiley face on it. “Loyal, and forgiving, but also capable of turning nasty if you poke it enough with the right stick, which is why this is still theory. Maybe. It might be real if Alcor’s unable to sense Bentley.”

            Torako’s stomach turned and her good mood evaporated nearly as quickly as it had come on. Dipper was quiet, which could mean several things. She hoped he wasn’t going to sink into a brooding spiral again. “Which means Bentley’s stuck in something potentially unstable.”

            “Unfortunately, yes.” Filara pinched the screen back into nonexistence. “And because Alcor is as powerful as he is, even the ward alone might not be enough. There’s possibly another element, which would destabilize it even further. Bentley could be younger when he comes out. He could have grown extra limbs. Maybe he knows more languages than he knew going in. Maybe he loses the ability to write, but gains the ability to telepathically communicate. Everything we know about unstable pocket dimensions comes from a long time ago when they were new and unrefined, and when you add magic to magic, weird things happen.”

            Torako closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. So we need—we need a good wardist. Who knows their stuff, and is connected to the warding professional world, and it _can’t_ be Meung-soo because I hate her and also I don’t trust her to know enough after being kept in the dark about her own nephew. Fuck.”

            Next to her, Lata slept on, curled around Fuzzles the beagle. Torako wished she was five and the world was uncomplicated again. She’d also settle for a long nap, at this point.

            “I’m sorry,” Filara said, quietly. “The downside of casting your net wide, is, well, you don’t really know the super serious pros very well. Especially ones who don’t thinktank, and do stuff instead. I can’t help you there.”

            Dipper straightened up. He looked solidly in the realm of his 20s now. That was both a promising and frankly miraculous sign, considering the situation was ‘Bentley trapped in an unstable affront against the laws of dimensional boundaries’ and his reaction to Bentley’s situation before this particular calamity. Torako was unable to wrap her head around how his brain worked, sometimes. “I do.”

            Torako couldn’t even muster the energy to raise her eyebrows at him. “You do.”

            “Yes.” He nodded, and stood. “Soos’s reincarnation’s mom is a wardist. She told me.”

            “Who?” Torako asked. She couldn’t remember a Soos. Then she registered the word ‘reincarnation’ attached to Soos, and not knowing made more sense. Except, “When did you meet Soos’s reincarnation?”

            “Last week,” Dipper said. “She gave me ice cream in exchange for homework. It was a nice deal. But, Soos’s reincarnation’s mom. She can help us. Definitely.”

            Torako narrowed her eyes in confusion. “But…does she know you’re you?”

            Dipper reached over Lata and grabbed Torako’s hand. She swore as she fought to keep her alcohol right-way up. “If she doesn’t now, then she absolutely will in about five seconds!”

            “Wait, wait, where are they, Dipper?” Torako asked, but it was too late—she felt the tug across her body, and they were elsewhere.

* * *

            Filara stared at the place Torako and Alcor had once been.

            “Darling,” she called, after a few moments.

            “Yes?” Tommy yelled back.

            “Our guests left with a towel and a tumbler of your lemon cocktail,” she said. She tilted her head at Lata and Fuzzles, and added, “Also, they left sans child.”

            There was a clang. Tommy appeared moments later at the entrance to the sitting room, staring at the empty spots on the couch, then at the backpack still on the floor.

            “Dipshits,” Tommy said. She sighed. “I’ll call Lata’s parents and update them on the situation, then.”

            “Thank you, darling,” Filara said. She stood, and stretched, and then stepped over to give Tommy a kiss on the cheek. “I appreciate it.”

            Tommy grinned, kissed her back on the cheek. “Always, dear heart.”

            On the couch, Lata shifted next to Fuzzles, but kept sleeping.


	9. Dr. Fantino Conducts an Actual Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bentley has two conversations with Dr. Fantino, whose research is probably not netting them the results they want. Dipper and Torako have their own talk with a very protective mother, and Dipper realizes that maybe he was ignoring some important calls.

**Chapter 8: Dr. Fantino Conducts an Actual Interview**

            “So where are we going?” Bentley asked, shuffling along on weakened legs. They’d stopped being so strict about knocking him out and prohibiting all human interaction. It might have been because he’d become prone to bouts of paralysis, where he stayed in one position and stared out into nothing, consumed with the overwhelming feeling that he couldn’t move, that he was frozen in place. Bentley knew he wasn’t actually paralyzed, but also his brain and body were having fights these days and Bentley was out of control more than he was in control. Moving around was therefore a bit of a pleasant surprise.

            He held no illusions as to how that pleasantry was going to end.

            “You’ll see,” the nurse guiding him said. Bentley was almost offended by how absolutely non-threatening the nurse was. It was like Bentley wasn’t thought of as a problem. To be fair, it was mostly true. He didn’t even have footwear, and it was hard to be intimidating without shoes. And shuffling. And also sometimes trapped in his own head.

            However, Bentley was content to let the misperception regarding his capabilities lie, just in case things changed and he needed the upper hand. He didn’t know how much he could accomplish with a weak body and without anything to draw sigils with, but there had to be something, eventually.

            “I’ve never been out here awake,” Bentley said instead. He was starving for conversation that wasn’t with himself, and the pale, hollow walls of wherever they were were as good a conversation starter as anything. They felt unnatural, like there was really nothing there even though they were solid. Bentley had reached out and touched one just long enough to tell it was there.

            “I know,” the nurse said. He had dark eyes and a thin, straight nose. They never really met Bentley’s, never really even did more than glance at Bentley’s face. He kept his hand splayed out between Bentley’s shoulderblades, touch professional but not overly pushy. Bentley was kind of ashamed at how much better the contact made him feel. “But now you are, I guess.”

            Bentley hummed. “It’s weird.”

            “Yeah,” the nurse sighed. “Yeah, it’s really unsettling. All right, so, here’s where we’re going! You’ll be alone inside that room, but you’ll be monitored.” The nurse looked like he might say something but bit it back with a complicated expression on his face that Bentley was in no shape to decipher.

            “When am I not monitored?” Bentley asked, dry, because it was one of the few ways he could distract himself from the frigid anger he felt at every dehumanizing aspect of his treatment. He hadn’t physically peed in so long he _missed_ it.

            The nurse laughed awkwardly, and opened the door set into the walls. The door felt more tangible, more actual, than the hallway surrounding them. Bentley nodded his thanks and stepped in, his hospital gown swirling around his knees. The door shut, and locked, behind him. Bentley leaned against it and surveyed the room.

            It was bigger than the hole they’d shut him in, but maybe only twice as much. The space was relaxing, but also unnerving after so long—however long was—in his own room, big enough for two twin-sized beds and nothing more. This space even had a table in the middle, and enough room to walk around it comfortably. Bentley blew his bangs, now past his nose, out of his eyes. The room smelled a little old, which was odd in a place that smelled only like absence. The reason for that, Bentley realized, was because there were some things on the table: a disfigured stuffed bear, an old tuba, a strand of gaudy beads, a very outdated piece of technology that Bentley didn’t even recognize, a beautiful vintage vase, and a pink bat with nails and screws hammered into it. It took Bentley a moment to realize what was happening.

            Once he started laughing, it was very, very hard to stop.

            “Wow,” Bentley wheezed. “You’re pulling this shit out? This unscientific crap? A _reincarnation_ test for babies? Am I a fucking baby to you?”

            There was silence from the room around him, but this _was_ a kind of test, so it wasn’t really too farfetched to assume that Fantino, somewhere, was watching. Listening. It burned Bentley to think it. He shifted focus.

            “That’s just rude. Are these even real, or just fakey-fake replications?” The bat definitely was; the lack of barbed wire was a dead-giveaway. Bentley, breathless with mirth, staggered over to the table to look at the objects further. He picked up the bear and laughed at its grotesque face. Dipper would get a kick out of it. “What the fuck kind of show are you running here? A weird stuffed animal? Art? Musical instruments?” He tossed the bear back onto the table. It landed on its side, back to him. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? So shut in your books you don’t even talk to people. Don’t know how to conduct an interview? Did you even get the right documents to conduct these dumbass experiments? Probably fucking not.”

            Bentley picked up the weird technology, thin and lightweight. There was a seam around its edges, and he pried it open like a book. It wasn’t, though. One side was blank but cracked. The other side was covered in a series of keys with characters, some of which he recognized as being familiar. It almost looked like a letter-input board. Maybe it was; they couldn’t have always been holographic and keyed to react to human fingertips. He pushed one of the keys and it depressed slightly. He felt nothing for the object but vague curiosity, born mostly of boredom. He tilted it. The cracked side reflected his own face back at him.

            Bentley stared, stunned into silence.

            It was hard to see, a little. The reflection was dark, somewhat indistinct, but he could tell a few things. His hair was longer, down to his shoulders—it was one thing to know that it had grown so much, and another thing to see it. Wiry stubble glanced down the sides of his face and covered his chin, the skin under his nose—he’d always been awful at facial hair. His face was thinner, and his collarbones more prominent above the neckline of his gown. One eye looked a lighter than the other. When he blinked, something weird happened with it, something he wasn’t sure how to qualify. His skin seemed mottled. When he looked down at his arms in slow panic, his skin seemed the same as before on first glance—except, except there was uneven coloring on his upper arms, indistinct because it was so close to his face.

            It was suddenly hard to breathe.

            The electric book, weird keyboard and all, slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. It cracked, enough to break beyond repair but not to the point of shattering. Bentley didn’t really even see it. Something inside him was frozen. He teetered on the edge between control and disconnect, fingers senseless, arms limp, knees trembling with the urge to just stop.

            “What are you doing to me?” Bentley said, finally. He felt faint. There was a lump in his throat like he was going to scream. The sound of old tech cracking continued to ring dull in his ears, an echo that lived too long. “What are you _doing_ to me?”

            His mind whirred and stood still simultaneously. Why was Fantino physically changing him? What purpose was this even for? Was this another layer of revenge for…for what? Bentley thought. The lilies, he remembered. The curse had worked? Was this all revenge porn for Fantino to jack off to?

            “What do you even want?” Bentley whispered. To his horror, he’d begun to cry. His breath hitched, and the world blurred a little.

            For a long moment, there was silence. Then, from the ceiling, Fantino spoke, smooth like wet ice across polished marble. “Many things,” they said. “Your cooperation would be appreciated, Bentley Farkas.”

            “Cooperation?” Bentley echoed, dumbly, like he didn’t have a Masters and wasn’t one of his profession’s leading experts. He stared at the broken tech on the ground, actually looked at it. Tears dripped down his face, hot, forced out by rapid blinking. The edges were jagged, white light from overhead glinting off the cracks, dipping into the innards of the machinery to illuminate hints of its constitution: faded wire, razor-thin circuitry dulled by age and dust, copper riddled with oxidation.

            “Tell me what I need to know,” Fantino said. “Let me do my research. It would be revolutionary, to study a Mizar during their lifespan.”

            “Revolutionary.” Bentley, like he was moving through tar, glanced from the computer to the exquisite vase, to the nailbat that closely resembled Torako’s. It was, he remembered somewhat dully, supposed to be Mizar’s. It was supposed to be his.  

            “Yes. So, if you might, please choose the object that calls to you the most—I do not mean to ridicule you, I mean only to exhaust every possible avenue of research in an endeavor to support my claims.”

            Silence. Then, Bentley stepped over the broken tech. He scraped the sole of his foot against one of the jagged edges on the upstep, but didn’t actually care about the pain or the blood that was inevitably starting to flow out of the ragged cut. Everything was too muted, lost in static. Bentley reached, and pulled the bat to him by the handle. The nails screeched against the table’s interface, and the hovering functions in the legs flickered and burst into momentary static.

            The bat was heavy.

            “Good,” Fantino said. “Is that what calls to you most? Feel free to take your time. You know as well as I do that accuracy rarely makes friends with haste.”

            Bentley didn’t answer. He hefted it, arms shaking a little, turned to face the vase. It was beautiful. Bentley stared at the red-breasted swallows painted into its sides. Their figures flew unmoving, static against the pale background. Soft splashes of blue lit them brighter, the contrast between warm and cool and light and dark striking. The motion they created though, drawing the eye here and there, was as elegant and fragile as the vase itself.

            Without a word, Bentley swung the bat into the vase and shattered it all across the room. Ceramic shards hit the walls; some bounced off, others stuck before dropping, and a rare couple actually impaled the wall and stayed there, light glancing sharp off their stress-fractured edges.

            Fantino didn’t speak from the ceiling anymore.

            Bentley staggered forward a couple steps. He dropped to his hands and knees in a pile of shards. The edges sliced into his skin, and he started to cry again at the pain, harder than before. He curled in on himself and brought his hands closer, shards dragged under the shadow of his body with the motion. Bowing his head enough that his hair dragged across the mess he’d just made, he drew his arms in and sobbed.

            When the nurses came in to collect him, he had run out of energy. He went willingly, limply, like he had cried himself silly. To be fair, he had. Bentley was honestly exhausted, emotionally and physically. The cuts on his hands and knees and feet really, really hurt, even after they were cleaned and healed shut into thin scabs that may or may not eventually scar.

            There was triumph in him, though, sharp with rage and urgency. Bentley was going to get out of this place, and he was going to make Fantino _pay_.

* * *

            Dipper was stubbornly refusing to reconsider the notion that it would be fine if Alcor the Dreambender showed up, unannounced, in the middle of somebody’s home at two in the morning. Yes, he had kind of torn through a series of impressive, specifically anti-demon wards in the process of blipping in. Yes, the walls and the ceiling (it took dedication to complete such an intricate spiral ward like that) were smoking and glowing with pinprick embers. And yes, there was also a tall woman in a silky nightgown and bathrobe brandishing a shock stick at him and Torako. Nevertheless, this had clearly been a good idea—the wards on the ceiling had just proven it. _That’s_ the level he wanted his expert ward consultant on. Maybe he’d chewed through them in no time at all, but he’d still had to _chew_ , at least.

            He was also inordinately pleased to notice that Olla Sussally’s mother was not, in fact, a Pacifica reincarnation as he had feared. She wasn’t anybody he knew. Perfect.

            “Get out of my house,” the woman snarled, eyes bright despite having just woken up, squinting only a little from having snapped the lights on. Another point in her favor was how _fast_ she’d woken and cornered them in her living room. Smart woman. Good instincts. Dipper liked her, even though part of him was side-eyeing her threatening posture and thinking, _how dare she_.

            “Di—Alcor, this was a really bad idea.”

            “Hello!” Dipper said. “We need your brain.”

            There was a beat of silence. Then, the woman gripped her shock stick tighter, aura shocked purple with fear and streaked orange with anger.

            “What the fuck, Alcor,” Torako said. She squeezed his hand really tight. When he glanced at her, she was still holding the tumbler that’d had her alcohol in it. Judging by the smoke, it had burned out at some point. “He means that we need your help with a professional question. Ma’am. If it would please you.”

            Dipper made no such promises. He wanted this to go smoothly, but if Olla’s mother refused, then he would do what had to be done. Bentley was not safe. Bentley was not with him. Even Soos’s mother would not stand in his way.

            “It does _bloody not_ please me,” Olla’s mother said, an edge in her voice that was both fear and incredulity. “You are both _trespassing_.”

            “I’ve been in your house before. I was invited,” Dipper said, mostly to remind Olla’s mother of the point that she already knew, judging by the glorious wards he’d just smashed to pieces. They were still flickering with blue and red, but the embers were slowly dying.

            “You’re not invited now. You are in fact uninvited _forever_.”

            “I’m also not a vampire. You can’t keep me away like that.” He smiled a little, smug, and made sure to put in an edge of his own. It was dangerous. He was dangerous, and Olla’s mother should be _groveling._ She should be giving him _everything_ he wanted, now, without hesitation because he could crush her under his pinky like a _mite_.

            “Holy shit, Alcor,” Torako said. She shoved the smoking glass at him and stood in front of him. Taken off guard, he almost dropped it in his confusion, then blinked at the back of her head.

            “Huh?”

            “I’m really sorry for this,” Torako said. “My friend was kidnapped about a week ago. The police couldn’t do anything and I got desperate. But there’s something that’s blocking us from finding him, and we found out it’s something to do with wards, and Alcor doesn’t get his reward until we make sure my friend is safe so he’s a bit…overenthusiastic, and I promise you I didn’t know we were coming here until about two seconds before it happened.”

            Murky _grudori_ suspicion crawled around Olla’s mother’s shoulders, tangling in her bushy hair. “So?” she said, but Dipper saw her knuckles grow a little less white on the baton.

            “You owe us nothing,” Torako said. “I have nothing to give you except my thanks, or maybe about ninety bucks because that’s all I have in cash right now and my backpack seems to have been forgotten—” she tried to step on his shoe, but Dipper moved it out of the way and decided that floating a little might be his best course of action “—but I really, _really_ need your help. My friend is in danger, and has been traumatized again, and I just want him to be safe and at home.”

            Olla’s mother stared at them. Dipper could tell her heartstrings had been tugged on, but she was still firm, still angry and scared, probably for her child in the other room. Somehow, Olla still seemed to be asleep.

            “Why should I help then?” Olla’s mother straightened, wary dark eyes on Dipper. “You brought a demon into my home. You have trespassed at two in the morning. How do I even know you’re telling the truth? Why should I care?”

            Torako’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t answer.

            Dipper reached out to comfort her, then stopped, hand half-uncurled. They still were—they hadn’t talked, he realized, not really. And with how Torako wasn’t giving the whole truth, how she was shouldering the responsibility for finding Bentley, for summoning a demon in order to, Dipper wasn’t sure how to act. Whenever they’d played summoner-and-demon, it had been to strike fear, not to beg for help.

            He pulled his hand back, looked back up at Olla’s mother. Her soul was only vaguely familiar, in the way that many souls were—her life had brushed against his, at some point, at some several points in the past, but they had never interacted. Dipper didn’t know how to interact with her. He didn’t know what buttons he might push. He didn’t know her soul, he didn’t know her at her core, and she was utterly set against him.

If Dipper were more honest with himself, he would realize that he was useless here.

            “If you can’t give me a good answer, then get out.”

            Torako took a deep breath. She straightened up, and said, “My friend is being tortured as we speak by somebody who only cares about results. I can’t leave him in their hands. If you won’t help me, point me to somebody who will. I will leave. So will Alcor.”

            Dipper would leave, he thought. Then he would come back and take what he needed, damn the consequences.

            Olla’s mother snorted. “Why would I set you on somebody else?”

            “Good question,” Torako said. She crossed her arms, shoulders tight. “I don’t know you. I can’t give you good answers. I have not eaten in nearly ten hours, and in the past week I have slept less than a third of what I should. If you’re not going to help, let me know already so I can figure out what to do.”

            “Fantino’s house’d be a good place to start,” Dipper said, mostly to cover his back just in case he did need to come back and _make_ Mrs. Sussally tell him what she knew, but also because decimating everything that person owned would be great stress relief and still appealed to him.

            Olla’s mother lowered the stun baton. “Fantino?”

            Torako dragged a hand down her face. “Yes. Just found out six hours ago. Don’t think it’s their house, but Alcor is going to take any chance he can get.”

            Mrs. Sussally stared at them a couple beats longer. Her expression was as though they’d suddenly grown horns, or maybe like Dipper had suddenly become human without intending to. He looked down at himself just to make sure—nope, still floating, still claws, still suit fashioned out of air and spite and fear.

            “Dr. Vallian Fantino?” Mrs. Sussally asked.

            “Uh,” Torako said. She scratched the back of her neck, one arm wrapped around her stomach. Her aura turned confused, with bright splashes of blinking _cerkan_ hope fizzling underneath. “You know them?”

            Mrs. Sussally pressed her lips together hard enough they went pale. Then, with a sigh, she gestured to the couch. “Sit down, I have to get something. If you move out of this room, I will know.”

            With one last hard stare at Dipper, Mrs. Sussally turned and left the room, wrapping her robe tighter around her form as she went. Dipper looked back at Torako, then lay a careful hand on her shoulder. Her aura was turning desaturated again in exhaustion.

            “Come on,” he said. “Sit down, okay?”

            “If I sit down,” Torako said, “I might actually fall asleep.”

            “I’ll keep you up, don’t worry,” Dipper said. He pulled her to turn towards him, and she followed. Soft, he brushed a thumb over the arch of her cheek, really saw the dark circles under her eyes for the first time. She closed her eyes, leaned in just a little.  

            “I just want him home,” Torako said. She swallowed, visibly, and Dipper could see tears starting to seep out from between her eyelids.

            “Me too,” Dipper said. He couldn’t bring himself to say that it wasn’t worth ruining herself over, because it was. It was worth ruining _himself_ over. They both knew it. Bentley would argue otherwise, but he wasn’t there to do it, was he?

            Dipper guided Torako to the couch and had her sit down. She set the tumbler, a little dark from the alcohol burning away, on the ground by the couch. He considered sitting right behind her, on the back of the couch—old and worn, but obviously well taken care of—but decided that Torako would appreciate not aggravating Mrs. Sussally more than necessary, and settled down next to her.

            Dipper kept an eye on Torako the entire time they waited, and took to poking her when it looked like she was about to drop off. By the time Olla’s mother came back, Torako looked about ready to take his head off. Dipper almost wanted her to try.

            “You are positive it was Dr. Vallian Fantino?” Mrs. Sussally sat in the chair opposite, a wide tablet in her hands. Dipper noted that the stun stick was hanging from her bathrobe tie.

            “Yes,” Torako said. “My…friend had a memorable run-in with them once. I remember them. They seem to have remembered my friend.”

            “And you said that you were being blocked by wards?”

            “Presumably,” Dipper said. Olla’s mother gave him a look that was half-fear, half-consideration, and all-suspicion. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m very powerful. It takes a lot to keep me away from something I want.”

            Olla’s mother looked up at the charred ceiling, then down at him. “I’m aware,” she said. She looked back at Torako. “I need to make a deal for this information.”

            Dipper straightened and did his best to keep a grin off his face. Finally, they were getting somewhere!

            Torako nodded. “What are your terms?”

            “He,” Mrs. Sussally pointed at Dipper, “will not enter this house once he has left it, nor will he approach my daughter outside of it ever again, not even if she calls him.”

            “Even when she’s an adult and can make her own decisions?” Dipper asked, pressing his lips shut. “That seems unfair. This concerns her, so shouldn’t she be here to make that call?”

            “She is my _daughter_ ,” Mrs. Sussally said, chin tilted up, expression fierce. “I will not compromise on this.”

            “You can’t control her,” Dipper said. “What happens if she summons something…less forgiving? I might be the only thing that could save her.”

            “Your ego is showing,” Torako said. She turned to Mrs. Sussally. “What he means to say is that your daughter’s life is hers. If she wants to be stupid and summon a demon, then make sure she’s at least summoning a demon who won’t try to swindle her out of her soul for her homework? Just a lot of ice cream.”

            “She is my _daughter_ ,” Mrs. Sussally repeated, fiercer.

            “Okay,” Torako said, holding up her hands. “So, just to make sure, these are the terms: In return for Alcor the Dreambender never entering this house once he has left it, for him not approaching your daughter outside of it even when she calls him. In exchange, you will give us any pertinent information regarding your knowledge of Dr. Vallian Fantino, and whatever your connection to them is.”

            Mrs. Sussally looked between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed. She ran her fingers down a braid, and her pink-painted fingernails glinted in the living-room’s lights. Finally, she nodded and held her hand out. “Deal.”

            Torako took her hand, shook, and before they could let go Dipper had slid his hand on top of theirs, blue fire flaring up to bind them all in agreement. Mrs. Sussally jerked, but didn’t withdraw until Dipper had settled back into the couch.

            The three of them sat there, the transition from deal to business awkward to navigate when one party’s house had been essentially invaded. Dipper tapped his feet against the floor, but it didn’t seem to spur either of the other two into motion. He opened his mouth to speak. Torako gave him an alarmed look, and rushed to fill the silence. Rude.

            “So why did Fantino’s name…why did you ask if we were sure?”

Mrs. Sussally nodded and fiddled with the tablet. It lit up, white light glancing off the bottom of her jaw. “The reason I ask is this.”

            She flicked up a message so that it was visible to them, hanging in thin air between her and her intruders. Torako leaned forward. Dipper only needed to glance at the letter to know what its contents were. Justification filled him to the point of bursting.

            “I _knew_ you were perfect,” Dipper purred. Mrs. Sussally looked a little disturbed.

            “You were asked to make the wards?” Torako said, after a few moments. Her eyes had regained a measure of sharpness, and she straightened in the face of this new discovery. “Why? What happened?”

            Mrs. Sussally lay the tablet flat on her lap. Her now braided hair shifted as she leaned into the back of her chair. “My husband works for a firm that specializes in construction based around warding, runeing, and increasingly sigiling,” she said. “I have taken commissions through them from time to time. My husband’s boss contacted me to ask if I would be interested.”

            “Then why not take the job?” Torako asked, leaning forward. She pointed at a number in the letter. “It’s a substantial sum.”

            “That surprised me too,” Mrs. Sussally said. “But as it’s an experimental process, and as there’s a non-disclosure agreement attached, it makes sense. And I didn’t go because it’s in another country, and I’d need to be on-site in order to figure out how to inscribe the wards. Monitoring can be done remotely, but I would have to be there to actually ensure that the correct ratios of energy were used to install the glyphs. Besides, I have other commissions that I can do here, and watch over Olla while she goes to school—which seems to be entirely warranted.” She cast a meaningful glance at Dipper.

            Dipper frowned. “Then why disclose the commissioner’s name at all?” He asked, jabbing a claw at one of the instances in which the Asshat’s name was mentioned.

            “Company policy,” Mrs. Sussally said. She downsized the letter, and then pulled up another couple of pictures, this time of the ward-building in process. Dipper whistled—they were so intricate that you couldn’t even see where specific chains began or ended, and variation in size was pretty tricky to pull off effectively. They were set into and around an otherwise plain doorframe, cold grey and utilitarian black.

            “How do we work around the wards, then?” Torako said, squinting. “I’m not really fluent, but I can tell that there’s some kind of password involved to get into the pocket dimension.”

            “I don’t know the password, so I can’t help you,” Mrs. Sussally said. “You would have to get it.”

            “What about knocking the wards down?” Dipper asked. He tugged his collar a little.  “Wouldn’t that do the trick?”

            Mrs. Sussally raised her eyebrows at him, a little derisive. Maybe not as perfect as he’d hoped, but you know, she was doing what they needed so he was happy enough. “Knocking the wards down would collapse the dimension they surround,” she said, the _amateur_ left unsaid but heavily implied. “Which, if your summoner’s friend is in there, would be going against the terms of your agreement. You can’t just do to these wards what you did here.”

            “Right, we find somebody who knows the password.” Torako nodded, then pointed at one picture. “This is the exterior of the building?”

            Mrs. Sussally nodded. “It’s apparently somewhere in Kabul.”

            Dipper sat up straight. “Kabul?” he asked.

            “My husband can’t tell me exactly where.” She paused, then narrowed her eyes. “Do _not_ go to him for answers.”

            Dipper would argue that that hadn’t been part of the deal, but he suddenly remembered that Batoor had called for him. Several times. If Fantino was in Kabul, and Batoor was near Kabul…

            Dipper stood up. “We have to go.”

            Torako, when he looked, was staring at him. “What.”

            “We have to go. Right now. Immediately. _Yesterday_.” Hopefully Batoor was okay; the more Dipper recalled the summons, the more he thought that there was urgency encoded in the summons. Fuck.

            “Oh my god.” Torako stood, however. “Thank you, Mrs…”

            “Sussally,” Olla’s mother said. “You’ll be leaving then?”

            “Yes. I apologize for coming in like this, but I suppose we’re going on to the next stop.” Torako smiled, thin. Dipper flared and flapped his wings in irritation that everything was taking so long.

            “At least it’s almost six there, then,” Mrs. Sussally said. “I hope you don’t take this wrong, but I don’t ever want to see you again.”

            “Yeah, no, I understand,” Torako said. She turned to look at Dipper. “I don’t exactly…”

            “Lock of hair,” Dipper said. Torako rolled her eyes.

            “I’m going to be bald by the end of this, then,” she said. “Fine. Lock of hair to get us to wherever is next.”

            Dipper grabbed her hand, threw a salute at Mrs. Sussally (belatedly remembering that it was possible that the meaning of that particular gesture had changed since the last time he’d done it), and then they were in Batoor’s bedroom at a less ungodly hour in the morning. 

* * *

            It was not all that surprising to find himself, a few light-dark cycles later, in a room with the person who’d kidnapped him in the first place. Bentley pressed his healed palms to the table, stared at the backs of his hands. The mottling was growing more distinct, skin growing lighter or darker or staying the same in blurry patches. He wondered if it was just cosmetic, or if there was something else wrong with him that he just couldn’t tell. Vitiligo didn’t bother him. How it happened, if it had further consequences, kind of really _did_.

            “I took your advice,” Dr. Fantino said, across from him. Bentley glanced up at the other person; carefully styled hair, straight back and immaculate blouse cut fashionably close to their body, a datapad Reader in one hand and a stylus in the other.

            “Clearly not,” Bentley said. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

            Dr. Fantino neither smiled nor frowned. Their dark eyes were square on Bentley with a narrow intensity that made Ben a little nervous. “I consulted several acquaintances on research protocol in regards to sentient beings. It was suggested to me that I conduct an interview, or a conversation. Hence, this.”

            He hummed, looked back down at his hands. He turned them over. The palms were also starting to become patchy. “I don’t suppose anything was said about gaining permission to conduct interviews, or the signing of the appropriate contracts?”

            Bentley was ignored. “So, for the record, would you state your name?”

            “You know my name,” Bentley said. He looked at the ceramic shard on the table between them, wondered how fast he’d have to act in order to drive it into Fantino’s throat. Wondered if it was even possible; there might be some sort of shield between them, preventing Fantino from coming to harm. If they were smart, there would be one.

            “Humor me.”

            Bentley sighed, leaned back. “Bentley Josh Farkas,” he said. His bangs were down to his lips now, and with nothing to tie them back, were a constant annoyance. He was seriously considering the possibility that he was stuck somewhere time flowed differently, and it would partly explain why Alcor hadn’t busted in to get him out already.

            “How old are you, Bentley Farkas?”

            “Good question,” Bentley said. “Last I knew, I was twenty-seven, but time here is a bit funny, isn’t it?”

            Dr. Fantino nodded. “Observant, but I would be more surprised had you not taken note of that. Yes, it does run faster here than outside. How close were you to twenty-eight?”

            Well, it was better than running slower. Recent missing cases were taken more seriously than year-old ones. Bentley pressed his hand to the table again, felt the vibrations from the placement field echo dully against his fingertips. “Around four, five months,” Bentley said.

            “Not quite yet, then,” Dr. Fantino said, and made a note. “Bentley Josh Farkas, twenty-seven years old. Your parents?”

            Bentley’s hands curled into fists. He tried to keep calm. His head swum. “What about them?”

            “Their names and ages, please.”

            He bit into the side of his mouth, hard enough to draw blood and—the sudden realization that he could have done that earlier, that he had a writing medium at his fingers, was enough to lend him the presence of mind to answer. “You are cruel.”

            “No,” Dr. Fantino said. “Simply following protocol. For the record, please.”

            When Bentley looked up at Dr. Fantino, their face was as stone-blank as usual. The urge to scream nearly choked him.

            “My mother’s name was Soo-jan,” he said, voice thick. “She died when I was a baby.”

            There was a pause. “Your father?”

            Anger flared in him with all the force of putting potassium metal in water. “You bastard,” Bentley said, standing up suddenly enough that the chair behind him spun away. “You _bastard_ , don’t make me say—”

            “Please refrain from emotional outbursts,” Dr. Fantino said. They tapped an input board up from the table’s surface, and suddenly Bentley found himself sitting back down again, pressure on his legs to keep him from standing.

            Bentley let out a frustrated sob despite his best efforts. Dr. Fantino said nothing. It took several moments for Bentley to press the whirlwind of feelings inside him down far enough to speak again.

            “Please,” he said, something in him breaking at resorting to _begging_. “Don’t make me say it.”

            Dr. Fantino paused before speaking. “I understand. Then, Mr. Farkas, please tell me if the following statement is accurate: Dr. Philip Farkas passed away nearly two years ago, at the age of fifty-three.”

            Bentley swallowed past the lump in his throat. His hands were shaking. “Yes.”

            “And what were their professions? Those of your parents, that is.”

            “Mom was an. Explorer. Dad researched.” Bentley pressed his lips together and glared over at Dr. Fantino. “Are you just finding new ways to torture me, or what?”

            Dr. Fantino sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of sympathy, or of frustration. It was like—like they were experiencing something senselessly, mildly annoying. “I suppose we could delay the questions related to your parents,” they said, and scrolled down their Reader in a couple of quick finger-flicks. “Then, could you detail your first memory for me?”

            Bentley stared. “How is that delaying questions related to my parents?”

            Dr. Fantino pressed their lips back at Bentley, looked him in the eye. “How am I supposed to conduct my research when you are vetoing all of my questions?”

            “Maybe you shouldn’t be conducting this research in the first place,” Bentley said. The pressure had lifted off his legs, so he shifted in his seat.

            Finally, Dr. Fantino’s face spasmed in frustration. Their eyes narrowed and the hint of a sneer pulled at their nose. “It is happening,” they said, “whether you like it or not.”

            “Clearly,” Bentley said. His tears were clearing. “But, just for the record, I do not consent to anything that happens in here.”

            “The record will of course be doctored before presentation to any relevant parties,” Dr. Fantino said, like he routinely fudged evidence to his advantage. Maybe he did. Bentley had never read Dr. Fantino’s papers, but he’d listened to enough of Torako’s frustrated mumblings about them, back before she’d shifted from an academic approach to something more practical. “The truth is all that matters.”

            Bentley looked down at the table, stared at his bare feet through the energy field. His nails were only short because he kept peeling them that way, driven by nervous energy and the need to be able to control _something_. “What even happens after this?”

            “After the research, you mean?”

            “Yeah.” Bentley swung his feet. The chair was just tall enough that he couldn’t touch the floor, whereas Dr. Fantino could. What a dumb power play; it was like Dr. Fantino didn’t realize that Bentley lived his life surrounded by taller people, and therefore with his feet constantly off the floor. “What do you think’ll happen after this?”

            “There are contingencies in place,” Dr. Fantino said, which explained absolutely nothing.

            “Contingencies,” Bentley said, dryly. “All right, Dr. Fantino. Whatever you say. What proof do you actually need, anyways?”

            Dr. Fantino glanced down at their Reader. “Did you, or did you not, curse me to be burned by orange lilies whenever I touched them?”

            Bentley raised one eyebrow. His fingers twitched. The urge to pick up the ceramic shard, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand but big enough to fill it, intensified. “Empty words,” he said.

            “Did you, or did you not?” Dr. Fantino twirled the stylus between his fingers and stared Bentley down.

            “…Yes, in the heat of the moment.”

            Dr. Fantino nodded. “Let the record know that I, Vallian Fantino, am in fact now incapable of touching orange lilies with my bare hands without suffering serious burns.”

            “Circumstantial evidence,” Bentley said.

            “Enough to prove a connection,” Dr. Fantino said. “Now, did you, or did you not, profess to me that you were a reincarnation of the soul known as ‘Mizar,’ as in the Mizar related to the infamous demon Alcor the Dreambender?”

            “If I did,” Bentley said, “it was the words of a grieving son.”

            “Words spoken in heightened emotions are usually true,” Dr. Fantino said. They tapped the stylus against the edge of the datapad, stared Bentley down.

            Bentley stared right back. “Usually,” he said. “Not always.”

            “In this case, then?”

            He tilted his chin up. “Not true,” he lied.

            “Then why say them at all?” Dr. Fantino asked. They tilted their head.

            “Is that why you don’t like to emote?” Bentley asked instead. “You don’t want to tell the truth?”

            Dr. Fantino did not look impressed. “Your fairy-fingered assessment is not accurate, as those usually are. No, emotions can cloud the mind, and I prefer to do my work with a clear head. I resorted to magical surgery to ensure that I would never again face such a debilitating handicap, and it has worked to my favor ever since.”

            Bentley felt about as impressed with that answer as Dr. Fantino looked impressed with him. What an idiot. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, which hummed momentarily louder as it shifted its weight-bearing settings. Bentley closed his eyes.

            “If that is all,” Dr. Fantino said. “Please, recount for me your earliest memory.”

            “What do you want out of this, anyways?” Bentley asked instead. There was an annoying glimmer in the corner of his left eye, even when it was closed and all he could see was the backs of his eyelids.

            Dr. Fantino let out a frustrated sigh. “Would it please you to answer a question for a question then, you insufferable human being?”

            Bentley had lots of things to say about how he didn’t feel like he was being treated very much like a human being at the moment, but he wasn’t sure that would go over well. Fantino could take it as admission of being Mizar, somehow. With their determination… “Sure, I guess” he said. He crossed his arms and didn’t do Fantino the dignity of even being looked at.

            Fantino made him angrier and sadder and blanker all at once.

            “Then please: what is your earliest memory?”

            Bentley chewed at the inside of his lip, on the side opposite where he’d already bitten through the inner skin. “I guess when I was three, we went to the ocean during summer. I saw something shiny in the water and grabbed it before my dad could stop me. It was a man-of-war.”

            “So your earliest memory is of a hospital,” Fantino said.

            “No, just. Blue. And shiny. And curiosity, and then pain.” Bentley cracked open one eye and had the satisfaction of seeing Dr. Fantino shift back a little. “What do you want out of this?”

            Dr. Fantino set down the stylus, then the datapad, and folded their hands on the table. Bentley glanced at the glimmering in the corner of his eye. It was concentrated along the edges of the ceiling.

            “I want to tell the truth,” Dr. Fantino said. “I want to be known for telling the truth. The money gained in such a venture does not hurt, but I do not require it, really. The acclaim…that is what I want.”

            “And you resorted to kidnapping to get acclaim,” Bentley said, both eyes open. Fury wrapped around his heart and squeezed. It was, momentarily, a little hard to breathe. “Kidnapping and torture and unconsented body modification.”

            Dr. Fantino’s eyebrows lifted. “I will concede the kidnapping charge, but the other two I have done by no means.”

            “ _Bullshit_ ,” Bentley snapped. He didn’t stand up, but he sure fucking wanted to. “First off, what do you call that deal with Alû then?”

            “My turn first,” Dr. Fantino said. “Do you have any odd dreams? Of lives not your own, of course.”

            “No,” Bentley snarled, “because there’s no _space_ for any past life dreams with all the _shit_ crammed in my head from being _trapped by Alû_ for fuck knows how many days.”

            “Before Alû, then,” Dr. Fantino said, eyes narrowing. Their posture, already straight, straightened even further.

            Bentley slammed his hands on the table. “No means no, you pale-faced dung-eyed sadistic piece of—”

            Dr. Fantino raised their hand. Bentley froze, mid-motion, eyes wide. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t move, _he couldn’t_ —

            Dr. Fantino lowered their hand and Bentley’s shot up to his throat. He curled in on himself, hyperventilating, breath coming in not enough to ease the ringing in his head. Dr. Fantino said something, but Bentley couldn’t hear it. Heartbeat jackrabbit-fast in his neck, fluttering against his fingers. Throat dry, having been right on the edge of dry from not being given something to actually drink. Teeth buzzing, reverbrating with the force of his breath and the tears in his eyes and the bloodflow rushing faster and faster.

            It took him a long time to come down from his panic attack. It left him limp, and tired, and unable to think well. He stared at the ceramic shard on the table, the sloppy sigils drawn on in blood with an even tinier shard.

            “Again,” Dr. Fantino said, softly, “please refrain from overt emotional outbursts. Insults are completely unprofessional.”

            Bentley would have laughed if he hadn’t just finished freaking out over being unable to control his own body. As it was, he couldn’t even muster up a scoff, or a sob, or anything.

            “As for Alû,” Dr. Fantino said, “It was a necessary part of the plan, for reasons beyond your own acquisition. Unfortunately, the demon proved…unwilling to release you, and as such measures had to be taken. Alû will not trouble you, nor anybody else, ever again.”

            He looked down at his hands again and tried to focus on breathing. All he wanted to do was sleep for several more hours, Bentley realized. He didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to be home, with Torako and Dipper, cuddling all the hurt away. And if he couldn’t have that, then he wanted to be alone.

            “So, next.” Dr. Fantino picked up their stylus and datapad. “What records we have of Mizars speak of vibrant personalities and colorful lifestyles. How do you fit into this pattern? Are there other Mizars we have missed throughout history due to their not fitting the profile, so to speak, of their preincarnations?”

            It took energy that Bentley didn’t have to look Fantino in the eye, but he did. “I don’t know,” he said.

            Dr. Fantino frowned.

            “I study sigils,” Bentley said, bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down. “Not Mizars. You’d—have more luck, if Dad were. Still.” He closed his stinging, watering eyes.

            “I see.” Dr. Fantino said. “A Preincarnation test seems to be the next step to take, though I had wished to avoid the attention that kind of purchase would bring. Perhaps Lloyd would be willing to arrange it for me. In the interim, we will continue our interviews and medical assessments. Your question?”

            Bentley almost didn’t respond, but he needed to know. He needed to. “Why…this.” Bentley gestured to all of him. “The changes. To me.”

            “Ah.” Dr. Fantino blinked. “Those were not intentionally done to you. It seems to be an unexpected side-effect of spending all your time in this place—a pocket dimension, mind you. The rest of the staff show no adverse side effects, but they are not in here the concentrated periods of time that you have been.”

            Horror bloomed in Bentley, soft-edged but persistent. The dots were not hard to connect. “You. You put me in an unstable pocket dimension,” he said.

            Dr. Fantino did not reply, but instead was staring closer at Bentley. “It is possible, theoretically speaking, that given the reason you have been put in here, that the skins of past Mizars are showing through. Passing the barrier of the soul to imprint themselves on the body—yes, that does warrant more investigation.” They began to scribble something on the Reader, mumbling to themselves. Bentley was struck with a sick, terrible sense of déjà vu. Philip had done that. He had muttered to himself while researching. It had been something Bentley loved about his father. It had been something Torako had picked up, from time to time. 

            Bentley wanted to throw up.

He didn’t mention the similarity to Dr. Fantino. 

            “The next question I have,” Dr. Fantino said, “is a bit of a personal indulgence, but why orange lilies?”

            Bentley gathered the shard in his hands, masking the motion as bringing his hands together to rest his head on. He breathed, in and out. Everything ached, inside and out.

            “You could have chosen anything. My theses, your fathers, things that were actually important to either one of us, but. Orange lilies? A flower? One that I would never have touched without there being a good reason for it? I don’t profess to hate easily, Mr. Farkas. The only thing that drove me to gather them again was sheer academic curiosity, so answer me—why orange lilies? They are significant, I understand, but why?”

            Bentley stood, slowly. He turned around and shuffled to the door. It was getting easier to walk. Didn’t hurt as much.

            “Mr. Farkas?”

            “I’m done,” Bentley said.

            “Mr. Farkas, I do not believe you quite understand the situation here—”

            “I’m done today.” Bentley set his forehead against the door and tried to open it despite knowing it wouldn’t. “I’m tired.”

            “Answer my question. Why orange lilies? Are they so significant to Mizars that—”

            “No,” Bentley said. Fucking Mizars. He turned his head to look at Dr. Fantino, sitting so proper at the table. The previous resemblance he’d seen to his father, to Torako, vanished in the face of such rigid posture. “No I—you came to remember my father. After he died And you threw hate at him. And me.”

            Dr. Fantino frowned. “However—”

            “I hated you for that. I hate you for that. That’s why I said what I did.” Bentley turned back to the door. “I was angry. Now I’m tired. Let me go.”

            Dr. Fantino was quiet, for few long moments. “Very well,” they murmured. The door opened, and Bentley was escorted down the curiously blank, intangible-tangible halls, back to the door that opened to his own matchbox of a room.

            It was only there, laying on the bed, hooked up again to the IV and the EKG and new hydration and nutrition patches slapped on his stomach and chest, that Bentley realized several things. He turned the ceramic shard over and over in his hands and considered it.

            A notice-me-not sigil. A simple chain that formed durability. They had been hard to make, for more than the reason he was using something sharp to write using his own blood. It was like there had almost been too much power. Simple would be better.

            The dimension was unstable.  Pocket dimensions, in and of themselves, were unlikely to be unstable; the technology had simply progressed too far to allow shoddy and unknowing workmanship. That meant some experimental magitech was being implemented. Not sigils; the dimension would have long collapsed. Runes, maybe? Bentley closed his eyes, head aching, and tried to push past it. If not runes, then…wards.

            Bentley smiled a little to himself. Wards. Wards weren’t really finicky, but if they were supporting a pocket dimension, and doing whatever else, they would be strained, hence Bentley’s hopefully only cosmetic physical changes. He knew sigils like he knew the scars along Torako’s knuckles, left hand, like he knew the glint of Dipper’s eyes right before he pounced, like he knew their bodies curled on either side of his. And sigils? Sigils, especially overpowered ones, were very, very good at breaking other magic.

            Maybe he wouldn’t make it out, Bentley thought, but if he timed it right—if he caught Fantino in the pocket—it would be enough.

            It had to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that, you know, spending all your time in an unstable pocket dimension would result in some consequences. My sister thought Ben didn't need more consequences, but I figured that it warranted something more than just cosmetic/helpful.  
> At the same time. She has a point.


	10. Batoor Introduces his English Tutor to his Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torako meets Batoor, and Batoor introduces Torako and Dipper to his father. Bentley breaks out of jail, and Torako and Dipper finally find where the pocket dimension is attached to this realm, only to run into some...problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tiny tiny bit of gore in this, mostly because of blood. There's also self-harm, but not in the sense that the character is doing it in the efforts to punish or hurt themselves. There's also a bit of fatalistic thinking. I think you all know which character this is happening to.

**Chapter 9: Batoor Introduces his English Tutor to his Dad**

 

            When they tessered into his bedroom, Batoor startled and let out a strangled screech before scrambling from under the covers and against the wall his bed is pressed up against. Torako didn’t blame him. She was also kind of eyeing his bed and thinking about how nice it would be to just lay down on it, but that was only peripherally relevant to nearly frightening Batoor out of his skin.

            Batoor, who looked like he was a baby college student, hissed something in a language that Torako didn’t know, but vaguely recognized as having heard before. Dipper hissed something back, gesturing with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Torako’s.

            Torako looked around the room as they discussed, presumably, Dipper and Torako’s sudden appearance. There were a couple movie posters, holographic output fizzing out every once in a while, and scrolling calligraphy crawled along the top of the walls, shifting every now and then. The ceiling was painted in blues and blacks and golds, intricately enough that Torako’s sleep-deprived brain spun the images into motion before she had enough presence of mind to look away. There was a hint of vanilla in the air, and the air was cool, like there was a breeze—when she looked over at the window, it had been cracked open. Mountains lay distance, dull and dark against the barely lightening sky. Torako yawned.

            “Look,” Dipper said, as if reminded Torako was in the room with him. “Let’s practice English, okay? Torako speaks English. She doesn’t speak Dashto.”

            “Fine.” Batoor curled his hands in his blankets, gaze flicking from Torako to Dipper. “Why is she here? Why did not you come when I called—”

            “We’ve been busy,” Torako said, language coming easy to her tongue after spending most of her life learning it. “Sorry. I’m Tora. Our friend was kidnapped. Nice to meet you. What’s up?”

            Batoor stared at her. Then, he opened his mouth, and what came out was, “Fuck.”

            It took Torako a moment to respond. “That bad?”

            “I,” Batoor started. He started to flail his hands a little. The skin around his cuticles glinted like the skin around his eyes. “That’s why I—I hoped that—ugh,” he said, turned to Dipper, and rattled something out in quick, lilting Dashto.

            Dipper froze, his eyes slightly wider than usual. He squeezed Torako’s hand, still in his grip, and his wings bristled just a little larger.

            “I understood none of that,” Torako said. She looked between Dipper and Batoor. “But, from Alcor’s reaction, I don’t think it was good?”

            Dipper replied to Batoor, who shook his head and replied with what Torako could only assume from context was ‘no.’ After Dipper started to pursue the conversation in Dashto further, Torako reached over and pinched him in the arm. He hissed and glared at her with an almost-pout on his face. Sucks to be him.

            “I don’t speak Dashto,” Torako said. Her stomach pinched in on itself. The feeling was uncomfortably familiar and also alien after more than two years out of her cult-hunting sabbatical. “Keep me in the loop, dork.”

            Dipper closed his eyes and nodded. “Batoor thinks his parents are in on a thing that sounds like it could be Bentley.”

            “Not all parents,” Batoor said. He pushed the blankets off him, and sat cross-legged on the bed. “Owera—my dad?—is a nurse. He has a job in Kabul. It is very…he gets a lot of money. Said it was a little—odd?”

            “But your parents know about it,” Dipper said.

            Batoor’s face screwed up. He ruffled his hair. “Yes? But also no? My…mother? Human mother. She is very…mind-facing. Not heart-facing. We need money. As long as my dad is not killing people, she is fine. Oare—how do you say Oare in English?”

            Dipper made a face of his own. He let go of Torako’s hand to finally gesticulate and make noises of frustration. “There really isn’t a good word? Oare’s your…you hatched from them?”

            “Yes,” Batoor said. “She is not so happy. A little—scared? What is the word when you are…scared, but not? There is a problem and you do not like it. You do not know how the ending is?”

            Torako tried to smile at Batoor. She felt pretty confident she succeeded at least somewhat. “It’s okay. I get it.”

            “Worry,” Dipper said. “Your Oare was worried.”

            Batoor nodded, sharp. “They don’t want me to—warry? Wurry? Yes, thank you, worry. So they whisper. But I am good hearing.” He tapped his ears and grinned a little, somewhat bitter. “So I hear. And worry.”

            The sun was coming in stronger. Torako sat down on the floor and leaned back on her hands. “Why did you need the money?”

            She watched him twist his mouth to the side. He leaned over, setting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms. “It is hard to say in English,” he said. He glanced over at Dipper. Dipper nodded.

            Batoor launched into an explanation. Torako watched his face. He was very clearly worried, and scared. His shoulders were tucked a little in, and he kept looking away and then back at Dipper as if Dipper’s expression would change. When Torako watched Dipper, she could tell even with an exhaustion-numbed mind that he was stone-still. She reached over and tugged at his waistcoat once Batoor looked like he was mostly finished, his already quiet voice trailing off into nothing.

            “Hey,” she said once Dipper had turned his attention to her. “Let the kid know you’re okay, alright?”

            Dipper stared at her, face still granite-hard. She waited him out, unwilling to be more intimidated than the natural reaction of her heartrate picking up. Sure enough, she was rewarded mere moments later with Dipper dragging a hand down his face.

            “It’s not your fault,” Dipper said. Batoor’s face remained unchanged, so Dipper repeated it again in Dashto. Torako took a moment to make sure that Batoor looked somewhat reassured, and then flopped back onto the floor.

            “Okay,” she said. “Tell me what’s up, Alcor.”

            Dipper sat down on the bed. Above the bed. Whatever, he was sitting. “This area is experiencing a…backlash against non-humans. The El-Amins are a mixed family, and they’re realizing that they should probably get out while the getting is good, but his Oare…” Dipper turned to ask Batoor a question, then continued. “Yeah, his Snake-Mom got laid off, and moving to another, relatively safer country is pretty expensive, so his Dad got another job. Which included a magical non-disclosure agreement, and pays a lot of money, and apparently it’s odd and they’ve only got one patient who spends a lot of time not-sleeping or out of it.”

            “So nothing specific.” Torako threw an arm over her eyes. “When’s his Dad going to be around to question?”

            “Don’t hurt him,” Batoor said. Torako peeked at him out of one eye. He was twisting his hands together, but his face was bright, his jaw set. “He just wants safeness.”

            Torako could see the nasty, selfish thoughts almost writing themselves across Dipper’s face, so she took point on that request. “We’ll do our best,” she said. “But we might need him to take us to the place our friend might be being kept, okay?”

            Dipper grumbled, and she caught alarming flashes of yellow between his teeth. Torako sat up, grit her teeth against the swimming in her head, and set her arms on her bent knees.

            “Look, Batoor, right?”

            Batoor nodded. He was—technically an adult, but he was so young in all the ways that mattered. Torako bet that despite being twenty, he hadn’t been kidnapped by cultists hired to summon an all-knowing (literally) demon of knowledge, and subsequently been exposed to the fact that his best friend was summoning another all-powerful demon on the down-low for several years. And she’d been like, _eighteen_ then. Torako needed to be delicate, basically.

            “If Alcor gets out of control,” she says. “I’ll stop him from…” not eating, not eating, that was _not_ a delicate word in this context, “…from hurting your dad, okay?”

            Batoor nodded again. “Thank you,” he said after an awkward pause. He’d glanced at Dipper in the interim, which suggested to Torako that he didn’t have too much confidence in her ability to hold Dipper back. Which was fair. Batoor didn’t know Torako. He didn’t know that yes, Torako was afraid of Dipper sometimes, and he didn’t know that she would stare him down anyways.

            Dipper had broken her arm and had even tried to kill her when he thought that Bentley had died, but Torako knew Dipper. She knew herself. She knew Bentley. And she never wanted Dipper to become what Bentley had described him as being at the beginning—feral, and earnest but absolutely incapable, socially crippled by centuries of grief and anger and guilt. If she could stop him, then she would.

            “Of course,” she said, because it was true. “Is your Dad around?” she asked, because they needed to know, even though all she wanted at that moment was a nap and food and maybe a shower.

            “No,” Dipper responded. “He’s out.”

            “Oh thank everything,” Torako said. She laid back down. The patterns on the ceiling were beautiful, but. Her brain. She closed her eyes. “That means I can sleep, right?”

            “He only left last night,” Batoor said, helpfully. “He will not come home for one, maybe two days? You can sleep.”

            “Or we could find him?” Dipper said, incredulous. He poked her side. Torako giggle-growled and wriggled away.

            “We don’t know where he is,” Torako said. She turned to look over her shoulder. “If he’s doing what we think he is, he might be on the other side of the pocket. The one we can’t find. Also. You might be able to not sleep, being…” she flapped her arm at him. Dipper looked both smug and irritated. “But. I am very very human. I have not slept in ages. I have not had a full meal in also ages. I am hungry and tired. And also need a shower.”

            Batoor swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You can take my bed. My mom and snake-mom are here still, but when mom is not in my house, maybe shower and food?”

            “You’re my new favorite,” Torako said.

            “But _Bentley_ ,” Dipper said. She didn’t know if that was in response to Batoor now being Torako’s favorite, or if it was in response to Torako not Struggling Onwards and Killing Herself To Rescue Their Friend, but she was just _no_.

            “Holy fuck,” Torako said. She struggled back up again. “Food. Sleep. Shower. Think, you idiot: what happened with the flying pigs and that one cult dedicated to the multiplication demon we took down? What happened then?”

            Dipper looked down. He twitched like he was going to scuff his toe against the floor, but didn’t. “You got hurt.”

            “Yes,” Torako said. She shook her finger at him. “ _Yes_. Food. Sleep. Shower. We might be fighting. I need rest.”

            “But I could do all the—” Dipper said.

            “No. Wrong. I will help. Shut,” Torako said back. She pulled herself onto the bed, not even caring how close she was to Batoor when she flopped onto the bed. “I am sleeping. Goodnight.”

            “ _But_ ,” Dipper said.

            Torako would have thrown a pillow at him if it was her house. It wasn’t, though, so she stuck up her pinky at him and shook it. Dipper shut up, and it took maybe thirty seconds for her brain to shut off, thank _everything_.

* * *

            Torako woke up to Batoor shaking her shoulder like he was afraid he’d make her fall apart if he was too enthusiastic about it.

            “Torako,” he said, quietly. “Oare is out of home. Take a shower. I will make food.”

            She mustered up everything she has in her and let out a long, somewhat whiny moan of disapproval. Torako then turned onto her other side to face the wall and tried to sleep a little bit longer.

            Batoor kept shaking her shoulder. “Torako, no, do not sleep, you can sleep again. Later,” he said.

            Torako whined and curled in tighter on herself. Batoor couldn’t _make_ her. He was a baby still. She was a whole, what, six, seven years older than him? That clearly meant that he couldn’t move her. She was immovable. Invincible. Unstoppable.

            “Let me handle this. Torako, get up.” Dipper was shaking her shoulder instead. Torako scowled. Dipper was considerably older and more powerful than Batoor. He was literally Alcor the Dreambender, aka death incarnate, aka Way Above Her Weight Class.

            Torako, who had seen Dipper hiss and gnaw on a particularly tricky treat-trapper meant for dentally-enhanced pets, kicked back at Dipper before snuggling down deeper into the cushions.

            “Torako.”

            She let out a sigh of contentment, and tuned Dipper out. To be fair to her, it worked. To be fair to Dipper, who (despite having frustration-chewed a treat-trapper to bits once or twice) was rather up there on the scale of power, he had been waiting for about seven hours for Torako to wake up. To be fair to Batoor, he’d had to deal with an antsy demon who didn’t know what to do with himself while putting on a front for one of his parents and now that there was the chance to not deal with only Alcor, he was going to take it.

            Batoor lowered his center of weight, grabbed Torako by the legs, and pulled hard enough that she fell halfway off the mattress. Torako, in turn, let out a startled screech. Dipper then took the opportunity to clasp her by the arm and next thing Torako knew, she was in a cramped shower stall, fully on, and the interface—written in another language—was blinking to life.

            Dipper stared at Torako. His fingers hovered over the control interface. 

            Torako stared at Dipper. “Clothes,” she managed to say, her ability to vocalize still trapped by sleep.

            Dipper nodded. Then, he grinned at her and pressed a couple buttons. “Better be fast,” he said. “You have a minute.”

            Then he was gone. Torako took ten seconds to comprehend what was going on, then pulled her clothes off as fast as she could manage.

            When she emerged from the shower ten minutes later, gloriously clean (if feeling a bit grody for having to put on old clothes, ew) and her hair a little poofy from the drying capsule, she made sure to open the door and throw her soaking socks right at Dipper’s face. He sputtered when they hit him across the cheek and nose with a wet slap before dropping off, heavy and solid.

            “What was _that_ for?” Dipper squawked.

            “What do you think?” Torako said.

            “You should have been faster!”

            “You should have been less shitty,” Torako hissed. She bent down and picked up the socks again. “Also, the change of clothes I had in my backpack would be really nice to have right now, you know.”

            “Yeah, where is it?”

            To this, Torako could only stare Dipper in the eyes. Maybe he would understand exactly how dead inside that made her feel.

            Dipper took a few minutes to catch on. “Oh.”

            Torako nodded. “Yes. Oh.”

            “I should get that, shouldn’t I.”

            Slowly, Torako raised the still wet socks. Dipper tilted his head to track their moment, and the light from the hallway’s windows caught the water droplets still on his face. When he didn’t disappear, or say anything, or move other than to watch her socks, Torako said, “That’s a yes.”

            Dipper glanced at her, then back at the socks. He opened his mouth. “Uh, what do I, what do I get in return for—”

            Torako squeezed the socks. Water fell into the floor below them, spattering from the force of the drop.

            “Okay,” Dipper said. “We can negotiate once I get it. I’m just gonna…” Dipper made some kind of awkward motion with his hands, half-curled into finger-guns, before blipping out of existence. The moment he did, Torako slapped the bathroom door back open, pulled the cleaning rag she’d noticed off the wall, and mopped up the mess she’d just made.

            As she was kneeling there, cursing the weak absorption rate of the rag, she heard footsteps down the hall. Torako lifted her head. Batoor was there, feet bare against the cold tile. “Is it fine?” he asked.

            “Sorry,” Torako said, gesturing lamely to the floor and the rag. “I just. Uh. My socks were wet.” She held up the socks in question, bright blue and with odor prevention sigils hand-stitched into the top seam. She’d added them, not Bentley, but it still made her think about him.

            Batoor nodded. His face said he didn’t quite think he understood, but that wasn’t so important in the grand scheme of things.

            “What’s up?” she asked, grabbing the rag as she stood.

            Batoor smiled a little. “I made food. It’s kind of a snack. Sorry.”

            “Why are you apologizing?” Torako went to put the rag back on the drying rack, which activated with a hum once it registered wet. After a moment of thought, she hung her socks there too. May as well. “You made me food. I haven’t had food in…” Torako thought hard to herself. “How long has it been?”

            “Uh,” Batoor said. When Torako exited the bathroom again, he was frowning, eyes narrowed in thought.

            “It’s not important,” Torako said. “I’m hungry, so thanks.”

            Batoor shifted from one foot to the other. Then he looked down, took a deep breath, and looked up again. “Follow me, please.”

            Torako nodded. “Sure. Lead on, Batoor.”

            They walked down the hall, and entered a wide-open room with the same warm walls as the rest of the house. There was a large patterned rug on the ground to Torako’s right. An assortment of mis-matched sitting furniture was situated on it, centered around a low-lying table that looked old and well-used. There was a holographic clock set on the wall, and when Torako looked out the window she could see another house a few hundred meters away. It looked quiet, quaint.

            “Sit down,” Batoor said. He pointed an open hand at the chairs. “The green one is best. Oare doesn’t use.”

            The green one it was. “You don’t need any help taking the food out here?”

            Batoor shook his head. After a moment, he smirked, and said, “If I let you help, maybe you do not leave the kitchen, and only eat. Best is you wait.”

            He turned and disappeared into an open doorway, which lead to what Torako could only guess was the kitchen. The odd thing was, she thought, she didn’t even feel hungry. She sat down on the green-cushioned chair, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

            Bentley was nearby, she thought. Bentley was in a pocket dimension, sure, but the _entrance_ was nearby. They were so close, but so far, and who knew what Bentley was going through? How long it had been for him? How he might have changed?

            Torako pressed her lips together. No. No. Bentley would—would be fine. It would be okay. Even if Bentley was an old man, or if he had six limbs suddenly, or if he was bald or didn’t even have a body anymore, they would make it work.

            …Bentley as an old man would be _so weird_ though, Torako thought.

            “Here,” Batoor said. Torako opened her eyes. Aside from the glass of water, there were three dishes in front of her: one with naan, one filled with what looked like yoghurt, and one with some kind of shredded vegetable mix. The moment she saw the food, her stomach reminded her in a sudden and vengeful that it had been empty _forever_.

            “If it is not enough, there is more,” Batoor said. He opened his mouth to say something else, then seemed to think twice.

            “Oh thank all the fucking fish in the sea,” Torako murmured, reaching for some naan. “You are an angel. You are the best. Thank you.” She ripped a piece off, dipped it in the white dip, and shoved it in her mouth. Yup, it was yoghurt and slightly minty and she might have moaned with the sensation of actually having some kind of food in her mouth.

            Batoor was a quiet while she ate at first. Then, when she was about halfway through the vegetable salad (cucumber and tomato and onion in a kind of vinaigrette and it was _fantastic_ ), he asked, “What did you think about? Before the food.”

            Torako tilted her head and looked up at the ceiling in thought. She traced the patterns (orange and black and red and white, just as intricate as the ones in Batoor’s room) on the ceiling with her eyes and finished chewing. “You mean when I was in the shower?”

            “No,” Batoor said. “You were here. You were sitting, and your eyes closed. You frowned.”

            “Oh,” Torako said. She ripped apart another round of naan, slowly, and watched how it stretched and stretched before finally tearing, clinging as long as possible. “Bentley,” she said.

            “Your friend?” Batoor asked. He poured her more water from a pitcher she didn’t even know he had. His eyes were bright and curious, dark against the blue of the scales around them. “The one my dad watches?”

            “Yeah,” Torako said. She dipped the naan in the yoghurt. “Did Dipper say anything while I was asleep?”

            Batoor blinked. “Dipper?”

            Torako paused, naan halfway to her mouth. The faint hint of mint wafted up her nose. “Nickname for Alcor,” she said, which was kind of but also not really true.

            “Oh. Then, yes, a little.” Batoor sat down on the seat next to the green one. His seat was a horrid paisley with all the wrong colors, and Torako kind of wanted one in their apartment. Maybe someday. “He mostly was quiet. It was not normal.”

            Torako chewed and swallowed, then reached for her water. “He does that, sometimes. Sorry about it. Usually I can get him to play a joke on Bentley, but…” she closed her eyes and took a sip of water. The ache in her stomach was dying down to something more bearable, less distracting. It was almost grounding (and Torako knew that was dangerous, to think like that, so she did her best to push it aside until she could actually deal with it productively), it was almost comforting.

            Torako reached for the naan. Hunger wouldn’t help Bentley.

            Batoor watched her. Torako noted his hands, the darkness of his nails. She’d bet that they were harder than normal nails too, though how he would have gotten that from a…snake mom?...she didn’t know. Snakes didn’t have nails, she mused as she shoved more bread in her mouth, so maybe they were actually softer. At any rate, the naan was still delicious, but hunger makes everything taste like it was created by a top-star chef or it was literally made by a god or goddess or something with divine power, so Torako found herself enjoying it just a tiny bit less now that her stomach was a little satiated.

            “How is he?” Batoor asked.

            Torako blinked. “Who? Alcor?”

            Batoor waved his hand and shook his head. “No, your friend. Bentley. How is he?”

            It took a moment for Torako to realize what Batoor actually meant, but she did. “You mean, what’s he like?”

            “Yes, that,” Batoor said. He curled his legs up under him, arms still cradling the water pitcher. “What’s he like?”

            After a short pause, Torako tried to respond. “Well, he’s…” she trailed off. “Bentley is…” How did you explain another person to somebody? How did she do Bentley justice, when Bentley was everything to her?

            Batoor waited, eyes bright, the scales around them glinting whenever he moved his head. Outside, the sun shone, and if Torako looked out the window she could see trees waving slightly in a light breeze. It looked warm, and good, and quiet. She had the thought that maybe, possibly, she might like to take Bentley to a place like this when they got him out.

            “Well,” Torako started again. “For one, Bentley has about half the patience of a saint, which is miraculous when you consider what I tend to pull on him…”

            When Dipper blipped back, later, he listened in from the hall as Torako laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what had to have been days.

* * *

            Bentley was left alone for a few, nebulous light-cycles, aside from a couple of nurses checking on his vitals. They didn’t speak to him, even though the man opened his mouth to do so a couple times. It was clearly some kind of petty tactic to make Bentley crack (more) the next time he had to talk to Dr. Fantino. Or maybe it was to make him softer, more desperate for meaningful conversation, desperate enough to overlook Dr. Fantino’s _everything_ and give the person what was wanted. Maybe Fantino thought Bentley was on the edge of giving in. Maybe they thought Bentley was weak, and maybe Fantino wasn’t exactly wrong.

            But Bentley just got more and more pissed, and sad, and the fear he’d been low-key feeling the entire time he’d been captured was drowned out to the lowest levels he’d felt since his kidnapping. Bentley was pretty sure that wrath and spite would fuel him long enough to track Fantino down once he knew the monster had deigned to enter the pocket dimension. Then he’d risk attacking them, out in the blank open of the dimensional hallways in the hope that whatever Fantino had pulled in the conference room was limited to places more anchored than the liminal space between them.

            Bentley stared at the ceiling and fiddled with the ceramic shard, the one that nobody ever saw and the one that would be his ticket to regaining some semblance of agency. Maybe the end goal was finishing Fantino in as painful and awful a way as possible, but getting there was what would be the tricky part. He would have to be careful not to cause too much damage—he was going for a delayed response, not an instantaneous one. Whenever he closed his eyes and listened, or felt, he could eventually feel the echoes of a buzz down the length of his arms and legs and fingers, between the cracks in his teeth and along the sides of his ribs. That might be him just going insane, sure, but Bentley wasn’t about to disregard the possibility that he was overcharged with energy.

            The door opened. Bentley shut his eyes and curled his fingers loosely over the shard. A nurse entered the room, and when they pulled him up to a sitting position like he was a doll they could manhandle, he knew it was the lady with the long black hair.

            She pulled off the nutrition packer, and then the urine one, before replacing them. Her hands were brisk and no-nonsense as always. When he opened his eyes after not feeling her touch, he noticed that she was writing down his vitals, on a holo-pad. At her waist was a pair of thin cuffs, which was—new.

            Bentley blinked, and did his best not to make any kind of incriminating expression.

            She noticed anyways, and sighed a little. “You’re going to visit the good Doctor,” she said. “They wanted some extra security. Not that you need it.”

            When he spoke, his voice cracked a little. He was a little surprised with how dry it was; he really hadn’t spoken in so long? “They’re here?”

            “Yeah. All right, get up, let’s go.” She pulled him to stand up. He stumbled a little, and swayed on his legs. He’d forgotten to get up as much, the past few cycles. Dumbass, he thought to himself.

            The nurse turned off the holo-pad and flicked it back into the device on her wrist. She reached for the handcuffs, eyes cast toward it as she did. Bentley took a deep breath, easily found fury inside him, and lashed out at her throat.        

            She choked, dull and strangled, her eyes wide. She looked up from the cuffs, but he was already scoring her along her bare arm with the ceramic shard, and before she could catch enough breath to scream he was using her blood to put her to sleep. The buzzing under his skin swelled when he broke the sigil, and she dropped heavy and graceless to the ground. For several hard breaths, he stood over her. He shook—from exertion, from adrenaline, from emotion—and stared down at her, hair spilled over the floor under her head. She was so deeply _out_ , he realized, that the nurse was breathing softly, like she was in deep sleep. Like she was in a coma.

            Bentley felt a brief stab of concern, then a small well of guilt, and then it was all swallowed up by his anger and frustration and pride.

            “Didn’t need the handcuffs, huh,” he said. Then he turned around, stared at the EKG, and willed his heart to slow down. It did. He waited a few moments, then reached out and carefully drew the simplest looping sigil he knew—time, repetition, and the triple-loop of eternity—before breaking it, his body thrumming when he disrupted the sigil. The EKG flickered, and then continued.

            Definitely energy overload.

            Bentley pulled off the monitor sticker off the side of his neck and winced when the glue on the back pulled at the sensitive hairs there. He crumpled the sensitive technology up and dropped it on the ground. It hit the ground. The light in the room flickered.

            He looked up, then over at the door. Bentley realized, with a dull sinking feeling, that he was probably being watched. He’d known this, but in the moment, he had—

            The door clicked to a locked position. Bentley stared at it, dread weighing down on his chest. He bit his lip and tried not to cry. He’d been so close. So close, and now he wasn’t ever going to be able to get out. Bentley closed his eyes and valiantly, but fruitlessly, tried to stop his descent into hyperventilation.

            He clenched his fists. The ceramic shard dug into the side of his palm, hard enough to slice just a little. The pain shot through him like the strike of a match, and he opened his eyes to stare at the door again. Blood trickled down his hand. Too much power hummed, distant, at the back of his skull. Why, Bentley thought suddenly, should something as silly as a lock stop him from going where he wanted to?

            Bentley Farkas tilted his chin up, narrowed his eyes at the locked door, and then stepped over the body of the woman he’d just laid low.

* * *

            Dipper knew the moment Hank’s reincarnation stepped into the house, nearly a day after Torako took her seven hour nap. He stopped in the middle of playing a quiet game of cards with Torako and Batoor and closed his eyes. Maybe it’s one of Batoor’s friends, he thought. Maybe it was a neighbor come to visit.

            “I’m home,” a voice called from down the hall, tired and kind of deep.

            The cards in Dipper’s hands fizzed from the force with which he was holding them.

            Batoor stopped cackling at what Torako had just pulled. He took a deep breath, then called back, “Welcome back, Owera!” and a moment later clicked off the game. Dipper opened his eyes, looked down at his hands, and took a deep breath. Torako, across from him, reached over and patted his knee, slow. He caught her eye, then looked away.

            “I don’t know who he is to you,” Torako said, quietly, “but we have to, okay?”

            Dipper nodded, shortly. He stood. Reincarnations were their own people, made their own choices, he reminded himself. Torako stood with him, twisting her hand in a way that Dipper knew meant she wanted the cult-bashing bat. He tugged it out of the mindscape, and it settled in her hand like it was made for it. She had given him three bags of gummies to make sure that everything went well for them, here. The specifics were sacrificed for the sake of time, and Dipper sacrificed a part of himself to keep from jacking up the price.

            It was funny, Dipper thought, how much more it suited her than Bentley, his Mizar. Part of him wished that Torako had been mistaken for Mizar instead of Bentley, and the rest of him welled up in guilt before he crushed it. He didn’t have time for guilt, or what-ifs.

            Batoor shifted on the ground. “Should I call him?” he asked Dipper, in Dashto.

            “Please,” Dipper said. He settled against the wall, in a relatively shady corner of the room. It was three in the afternoon, so it wasn’t like there was a lot of shadow to pick from. Torako chose to lean against the desk and play with her phone, bat leaned against the chair beside her.

            Swallowing, Batoor stood. “Owera, can you come here?” he called. He bounced on his toes, then squared his shoulders and added, “I need to show you something.”

            Hank’s reincarnation didn’t respond immediately. When he did, he said, “Batoor, have you been messing with the energy detectors _again_?”

            “No?” Batoor said. He glanced at Dipper and nodded to himself. “I haven’t!”

            Footsteps, approaching them. “Batoor, if you’re lying to me, I’m going to get very upset.”

            “Sit down on the bed,” Torako murmured. “It’s more natural.”

            Batoor nodded at her, then backtracked slowly until his legs hit the bed and he could sit down. Seconds after he did, the door slid open, and Batoor’s human father entered the room.

            Hank’s reincarnation was mid-height, unlike Hank himself. His hair was dark and close-cut, and his eyes were a darker brown than Hank’s. His face was wider, his build stockier, his ears set out more on the sides of his head. He’s got a short beard, well-maintained but dotted here and there with grey.

            He is frowning. There are shadows under his eyes. Dipper relaxes against the wall, and puts on an air of nonchalance.

            “Batoor, I saw the Specreader! You know that the consequences for lying are…” Hank’s reincarnation trailed off, having seen Torako leaning against the desk. “Batoor? Who is this?”

            “Her name is Torako,” Batoor said, and at the sound of her name, Torako looked up. She slid her phone back into her pocket and shot Hank’s father a short, strained smile.

            Hank’s reincarnation nodded, but his eyes were wide and clearly caught off-guard. The door closed behind him. “Uh. Hello?”

            “Hi,” Torako said, clearly not in Dashto.

            It took Batoor’s father a moment to come up with an explanation. “Oh! Teaching Batoor English?” he asked. He started to relax, eyes crinkling in a smile. Unfortunately, they weren’t there to reassure him about Torako’s presence; they were there, in Batoor’s room, to intimidate Hank in to giving them the information they needed.

            It was an opportunity, though. Dipper reached out, ensured the door wouldn’t open and that they wouldn’t be disturbed, then stepped forward. “Actually, that would be me,” he said.

            Batoor’s father looked, then looked again, and then screamed. He wouldn’t be heard outside the room, but he didn’t know that and he was suddenly afraid so he screamed. Dipper wasn’t surprised to see him step back into the space between Batoor and Dipper; parents good to their children were usually like that, and Hank had been a wonderful father.

            “We need to talk,” Dipper said, once the screaming had quieted a little. He flashed an insincere smile, one that only had a little bit of bite. The rest of it was lost in _Hank, Hank, Hank_ , and Dipper didn’t have the will to pull himself out of that right then.

            Hank stared back at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. He looked a little ashen, and his eyes flickered to the door, to the window, to Torako and then back to Dipper before repeating the whole process over again. His outstretched arms were trembling.

            “So, here’s the thing,” Dipper said. “You know where somebody we care about is. It is in your best interests to take us to that place, and to enable our entry.”

            “You can’t make me do anything,” Hank’s reincarnation mumbled, finally, never quite catching Dipper’s eyes. “I won’t—I won’t let you hurt Batoor. No deals.”

            “I don’t want to hurt him,” Dipper said. He pulled his legs up and propped his elbow on a knee, his chin on his hand. “You are…to be determined.”

            By the desk, Torako pushed herself up to sit on it. The motion drew Hank’s eye, and he finally seemed to notice that the other human in the room didn’t seem all that concerned with the fact that there was a demon in the room. Torako picked up her bat and set it in her lap, pointy bits and all. Hank’s breath stuttered to a halt in his chest.

            “Don’t hurt him,” Batoor said quietly. He sounded miserable. “Please. You promised.”

            Hank was still frozen, staring at the bat, horror seeping bruise-purple across his entire aura. He was barely breathing. Dipper waited a moment, then said to Batoor, “We will do our best not to,” because Batoor was not somebody he wanted to lie to.

            “I…” Hank said, before trailing off. His arms had lowered to his sides, and he was terrified of something else entirely. Dipper was a little offended, honestly.

            “You’ve seen it,” Torako said, in English. “Or something that looks like it. Right?”

            Hank’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “You’re his friend,” he said, finally, in a voice like wind through withered grass. “The patient’s.”

            Confirmation: not that Dipper had expected any less, but also not that he hadn’t hoped it would be less. Dipper slid through air to stand next to Batoor’s father and threw an arm over the other’s shoulder. He jolted, then stilled, like a fawn scared in the middle of the road. Dipper smiled with more teeth. “You could say that,” he said. “So maybe you’ll understand when we say that we need you to take us to him, **n̷̛̕͏ơ̵̵w҉̨̧͏**.”

            Hank’s heartrate pulsed wildly. It stuttered, halted, then started anew and Hank said, shakily, “I can’t.”

            Dipper squeezed a little, just so that Hank’s shitty reincarnation could feel that yes, Dipper had claws, and yes, those claws were pressed right into his bicep. Torako, still sitting on the desk, caught Dipper’s gaze and asked a question with her eyes alone.

            “He said he can’t,” Dipper said, voice rumbling in his chest, a bastardization of a purr. “I͝ntereşt͞in̵g ̶  that he can’t, isn’t it?”

            Torako hummed. She tapped the point of one of the nails on the bat, then looked up through her eyelashes at Hank, face blank. “Why can’t you?”

            The bed behind Dipper rustled, but Batoor was quiet as his father trembled in Dipper’s grasp. He tilted his head at Batoor’s father. “Well,” he asked in Dashto, so that there wouldn’t be any convenient misunderstandings, “why _can’t_ you?”

            “My family,” Batoor’s father whispered, voice strained like he was holding another scream trapped in his throat.

            “Not good enough,” Dipper said. He squeezed, tighter. Batoor’s father whimpered. “Why. Can’t you?”

            “I,” the man said. “I—the—I signed.”

            “Oh, he signed,” Dipper said in English, lilting and with a crackling edge to his vowels. “He signed something, so he can’t. Cute, that he thinks that.”

            Torako leaned over, hooked her bag out from under the desk with Mizar’s bat. “Hey, Alcor, wanna deal?”

            His smile curled deep into his cheeks. “A deal?”

            The fleshbag he had his arm wrapped around trembled. Dipper absently thought that it wouldn’t be long before the man shook himself catatonic. Then, he thought that if he hadn’t already not-promised to deal minimum harm, the taste of the man’s soul would be so sweet after so long without that pleasure.

            “A bag of these limited edition candies,” Torako said, holding up a bunch of hard candies, magically treated to not stick together in the bag, “In exchange for nullifying any effects of signing a non-disclosure agreement or any other documentation regarding the case of our good friend Bentley.”

            The man moaned. Dipper looked up at the ceiling and turned the offer over in his mind. It wasn’t too bad, there were definitely a couple holes he could take advantage of if needed but if it was for Bentley…Dipper’s eyes traced the glittering wards painted into the designs above them, and then he nodded. “It’s a deal,” he said, twisting the candy into his Mindscape and then curling one hand into the hair at the back of his victim’s head. The man’s breath hitched, and Batoor started to say something in alarm, but Dipper was already delving in and—

            there were threads, glittering and shining and wisp-thin against the backdrop of Haji El-Amin. some were harmless, some were helpful, and some weren’t even related to Bentley, his sister, but then Alcor found the ones that were, the ones that whispered control of the tongue, some that whispered curses of misfortune, some that even murmured, low and quiet, compelled fallacies in the face of interrogation. Alcor reached, curled his claws around them feather-light—then, in the sharpness of paper sliding through skin, he cut them, then burned them, stayed only to see that they were obliterated before—

the deed was done.

            “So that’s taken care of,” Dipper said, right as the man slid down to his knees and began gagging, sides heaving with the effort.

            “Owera!” Batoor said, and crawled off the bed to settle at his father’s side, hands flailing a little before he set one on his father’s rising and falling back. After a few moments of retching and heavy breathing, Batoor stared up at Dipper, face reflecting the anger and fear and guilt and grief tangling wildly in his aura. “You said—”

            “He signed a really nasty contract and I cut the spells,” Dipper said, crossing his arms. “It’s only natural that there were consequences involved.”

            He didn’t say that if he’d taken more time, had pulled them out of their anchors by the roots instead of cutting and obliterating them, the side-effects would have been reduced. He didn’t say it because that would have taken—hours, maybe even a day, and they didn’t have the time and he didn’t have the patience for that kind of sympathy-driven tomfoolery.

            When he looked over at Torako, she was blank-faced as she usually was in their little interrogations. Her aura told a different story, and Dipper read from it that she was judgmental but understanding and guilty and just a little, tiny bit vindictive. Looking back at Batoor showed that the anger had dulled, just a little, but it wasn’t by any means gone.

            “…fine,” Batoor said, curling his arm around his father’s back in a move that was both protective and comforting. Dipper wondered if Batoor really thought it would protect his father, the wayward Hank reincarnation, for very long. “Just—let him catch his breath, okay?”

            Dipper nodded, shortly, and settled in to sit cross-legged mid-air.

            The ages it took for Batoor’s father to calm down dragged across Dipper’s skin, like rubbing a dog’s fur the wrong way, or like waiting for water to boil on low heat. Dipper kept reaching inwards, towards that dim pinprick of awareness he had of Bentley, following the tether between Mizar’s soul and his own existence back and forth, back and forth. No emotion, not even a general sense of wellbeing could be felt—simply the fact that it was there, it was there, and Dipper waited and dreaded it disappearing into the place only souls could go.

            Every moment it didn’t was a reason Dipper gave himself for not pulling Hank up by his shirt collar and tearing the information out of him by force. If it were somebody he hadn’t known, or if it was someone like Fiddleford, or Candy, or Manly Dan or maybe even Grunkle Ford, it wouldn’t have been enough. But it was Hank, so Dipper floated, and waited.

            Eventually, Batoor’s father calmed and his breathing evened out. Dipper exchanged a glance with Torako, and she inclined her head before slipping off the desk, nailbat held carefully above the ground. She stepped carefully over, then knelt next to Batoor’s father. He raised his forehead off the ground, the imprint from the floor rug speckling his forehead pressure red, and looked at her.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please, can you help us. Please.”

            He stared at her. “Why?” he asked, hoarse.

            “He’s my friend,” Torako said, slowly. “He doesn’t deserve this. He’s been missing for almost two weeks now. Please. Let him come home.”

            Hank’s reincarnation blinked, heavy under the weight of being assaulted both physically and mentally. He then sighed, long and low, and let his head rest against the rug again. Nothing was said.

            Batoor leaned in, hand rubbing up and down his father’s back, and spoke quiet enough that Dipper would have had to strain to hear. Instead, he stared down at them both, and trusted the emotions he was seeing twist and undulate through Batoor’s aura. Only moments later, Batoor’s father nodded, slight, against the floor, and then sat up with a lot of effort. He was—exhausted would be a generous description of how he looked.

            “All right,” Haji El-Amin said, like he was accepting to carry a hungry lion around on his shoulders for the foreseeable future. “I will help you.”

* * *

            Bentley didn’t really know where he was going, once he’d devastated the door with a very simple and very hyperpowered ‘open’ sigil combination. It had blown the door out and across the hall, which hummed and flickered in its blankness. Effective, but not exactly the most…subtle. That was okay, though; Bentley’d long had enough of subtle.

            He passed a doorway that looked familiar on second-glance, so he stopped mid-step and backed up, shift tangling a little between his thighs. Bentley narrowed his eyes at the door, identical to all the other doors (except of course the one he’d very recently demolished), but something tugged at his memory.

            “Fine,” he said to nothing and everything, and finger-painted another ‘open’ sigil in his own blood. Once he broke it with a single, curving line, the door blasted inwards, the doorframe buckling and the walls of the pocket dimension flickering and breaking out into momentary static before stabilizing. Bentley narrowed his eyes at the walls, and wondered if it was just him or if they seemed somehow more _reluctant_ than before.

            His patchwork skin caught his eye again, and he huffed. It wouldn’t surprise him if this dumbass kidnapping resulted in somehow getting emotions out of things without independent consciousnesses. Like magic. Or pocket dimensions.

            Whatever. Bentley stepped into the room, where the overhead light was buzzing, dimming and brightening in sporadic bursts. He looked at the table, and—there everything was, the bat, the bear, the broken ancient technology. Only the vase was gone, and he knew the reason for that. He still held one of its shards in his hand. They must not have bothered to check to see if all the mass was there, he thought. Lucky him.

            Bentley stepped into the center of the room. He stared at all the objects on the table, abandoned to gather dust (if there was dust, in this place) until they were useable again. Until Dr. Fantino, wherever they were, wanted them again. They lay there, silent, emotionless. The walls were just as inanimate, just as—blank, Bentley supposed. Normal, except they weren’t, they were reality anchored in another place, a dimension sewed onto their own.

            Slowly, Bentley crossed to the far wall. He dabbed his finger in the cut he’d sliced up his arm, and started drawing a time-delayed collapse sigil. He didn’t know—he didn’t know how long it would be before it collapsed, he thought as he stopped mid-line to get more…well, blood. He didn’t know the exact effects that the room’s collapse would have on the  pocket dimension, but they probably wouldn’t be good. Didn’t matter, though, he thought before finishing the sigil. He had to find Fantino, and if he couldn’t find Fantino, well…taking them down with him sounded like a good idea.

            Bentley stared at the sigil. He thought about Torako, about Dipper. Maybe—Maybe his death would suck for them. Probably it would. He reached forward and cut the sigil anyways, because without him around, they at least wouldn’t be subjected to being in fucking danger because of him.

            Well. Torako wouldn’t, at least. And Dipper would have somebody there. It wasn’t like he’d been left all alone. That was good enough, right? Right? It had to be good enough, Bentley thought to himself, staring at the sigil, because he’d already activated it. It pulsed, slowly. There was no way to tell when it would blow. Maybe it had been a bad idea.

            Bentley backed away, past the relics on the table, over the shattered, oddly-colored door and into the hallway, which seemed to twist a little every few moments. “Huh,” Bentley said to himself. He was shaking a little. He ignored it. “Cool. Cool, fine, this is fine, everything is fine. All right. Maybe. Different sigils. Next.”

            A time-delay something _else_ would be better than a time-delay destruction, probably. He didn’t want to die that fast. Bentley turned around and moved onwards, opening doors (often violently, as he misjudged the energy needed) in his bid to find Fantino. They wouldn’t be able to hide for long. And if they were, well.

            It’d all end soon, anyways.

* * *

            Haji spread his arms out, a little lamely and a lot nervously. “This is the…place,” he said. Torako squinted at it, and was Not Impressed.

            It was a tiny building squished between two equally tiny buildings. By tiny, Torako meant that it was pretty thin, like somebody had decided that the width of a regular city townhouse was too wide and needed to be cut in half. There didn’t look to be a lot of care put into it either, with the way the coat of paint on the outside was kind of begging to be touched up. It kind of surprised Torako; Dr. Fantino had been crisp, sharp lines, very modern and very much like a person who put a lot of stock in appearances.

            Next to her, Dipper’s lips were pursed and his human eyes were narrowed. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to look at. How is it for you, Tora?”

            “Really bland, but not headache-inducing,” she said, shifting the bag on her back. The shutters on the windows were old and looked like they needed to be replaced. “I guess that this is what the Good Doctor wanted, though, so. Yeah.”

            Haji shifted and ran a hand through his hair. “I can…go now?”

            “Nope,” Torako said, very glad that their interactions were largely in English now. She hadn’t much liked being left out of the last conversation. She was fluent in a good three languages, and that was enough for her to know she didn’t like the feeling of being dumb when learning to interact in another tongue. “We need you to give us passwords and biometric stuff. Aural scans, eye scans, whatever scans.”

            Haji sighed, but didn’t protest. “Okay,” he said, and then proceeded to not move. They stood there together, staring at the building and ignoring the stares and grumbles of the people who had to step around them. Torako looked up at the building, the sun beating down on her, sweat beading at her hairline, and finally set her hand on Haji’s shoulder. He flinched.

            “You need to go first,” Torako said. When he hesitated, glancing at Dipper, she huffed. “We promised Batoor you’d get out of here and back home, and I’ll be doing my best to keep that promise, okay? Batoor’s a good kid. I like him.”

            Dipper hissed and held his head. Haji bit his lip, then nodded and stepped forward. Torako moved to flank him on his right, and Dipper trailed behind them a couple steps. He was clearly fighting a migraine of some sort. Torako stuck her hand out behind her, and a few moments later she felt him grip it. She squeezed.

            The door was locked, but apparently was keyed to certain people. Torako shifted behind Haji, so that it wouldn’t see her until too late. Haji hesitated, but took a deep breath and then exhaled, letting his arms dangle at his sides. Torako crouched a little, and cursed how tall she was in this singular moment. Dipper’s hand phased out of hers. When she looked over her shoulder, she couldn’t see him.

            Well. Hopefully, that was just because of the door, and him thinking fast because one person might be able to slip through, but two was pushing it.

            The door hummed, and then opened. Haji hissed, “Quick,” and Torako slid in between him and the doorframe as he passed through it. The door clicked shut behind them, closing out all daylight and leaving them illuminated in lights from the ceiling far, far above them. Torako craned her neck back and noted that Fantino must have torn out the floor above in order to get more space. And he had to, because the two (literal) anchorstones for the dimension were—well, they were massively tall.

            Torako whistled. They took up almost all of the narrow space, rough stone hewn from what had to have been two massive rocks. Torako took a step forward and looked closer, her arms settling behind her back as she leaned in, slightly, to take in what had to be master craftmanship.

            “They certainly didn’t waste money on aesthetics, did they,” Torako said. The stones—more like obelisks, in shape—formed a gate between them, but weren’t nearly as shaped or as elegant as some of the more retro dimensional gates she’d seen before. Her parents had a simple door for their dimensional garden, but some of her teammates had more ornamental displays, beautiful and eye-catching. Not that this wasn’t eye-catching, but…Torako, when she eyed the complicated wards and runes and symbols carved into the stone, got the impression that the form was more for function rather than aesthetic.

            “I don’t know,” Haji said, almost helplessly. Torako looked back at him, away from the softly glowing anchorstones. “I just—I just work here.”

            “Yeah,” Torako said, but didn’t know what else to add so she just turned around and kept looking at the stones. The longer she looked, the more she realized that—that there was something odd, about these stones. There were the wards to keep unwanted attention out, from what little she remembered of her gen eds on different magics, and there were of course the various runes and symbols that anchored the pocket dimension onto their own reality, but there was something else in there too.

            “Hey Haji?”

            Haji hummed. It echoed, just a bit, in the tall empty space.

            “Do you know exactly what the stones do? Other than, like, ward off people and keep the pocket dimension going.” Torako narrowed her eyes at a particularly familiar set of symbols that she just wasn’t placing. They, unlike most of the others, weren’t glowing at all. It set the hair on her neck on end.

            “I…don’t know?” Haji said. “Maybe there is a…I don’t know the word. Something that…makes…something for if something goes wrong.”

            Torako chewed at the inside of her cheek. She knew this. She knew this set of symbols, and she traced it up and around the edge of the obelisk. It was hard, because they were integrated into the wards and the anchoring runes, but at least they weren’t lit up. “A failsafe?”

            “I think, yes.” Haji moved closer, kind of shuffling. “Should I activate it?”

            She didn’t like this. But… “Yes,” she said. “Please.” Dipper would…catch up. From wherever he went.

            Haji glanced at her, then knelt, reached out, and placed a hand on the floor—on a stone, perfectly round, perfectly between and in front of the two anchorstones. A moment, two, and then it lit up, soft and pale, the light spreading up the engravings in the anchorstones and lighting them up in a bright light blue, even the incisions that had Torako really really nervous. Torako thought it was gorgeous. Too bad they’d be destroying it as soon as Bentley was out of the pocket dimension.

            The air hummed with power. It was at once alien and familiar, leaving Torako torn between caution and relaxation, which ultimately just set her more on edge. She watched the light spiderweb between the two stones until there was a large passage carved out between their dimension and the artificial pocket sewn onto it. It looked like—like a long, blank hallway, with doors set into it intermittently. It looked depressing. Hella depressing.

            Torako needed Bentley out of there _right now_.

            Behind her, the air shifted and tore and snapped like it did whenever Dipper tessered nearby. Torako turned her head to see him, fully demonic and still looking like he was nursing an awful hangover.

            “He’s in there,” Torako said, and she managed a smile. “We’re so close.”

            Dipper looked at her, then looked at the portal, and managed to grin back—harsh and soft all at once—through the visible pain on his face.

            Of course, because the universe _sucked_ , that’s when strains of the light on the anchorstones turned red. Torako whirled around to see the same symbols she’d been very anxiously studying standing out, bright and angry, against rock and blue light. They combined, and swirled, and Torako cursed because holy _fuck_ that was a summoning circle, what the _fuck._

            “Incoming!” Torako twisted her hand for the nailbat and stepped forward to stand over Haji, who had fallen into a fetal position with his hands curled over his head. Fear thudded deep in her chest, butterfly-flapped in her throat as she watched some of the light coalesce into a form, a demon that stepped forward, between them and the pocket dimension. It shifted between forms, some less human than others, some bigger than others, before settling into something with cloven feet but with a very human torso, a few too many human arms, and an arguably human head.

            It was also pretty tall. Torako stared up at it, at its four glowing green eyes, the wealth of softly moving hair clouded around its head, and the tell-tale markings trailing from each side of its forehead down its square face, and sucked in a quick breath. _Fuck_ , she thought, because maybe Lilith wasn’t as strong as Alcor, but she was a nightmare anyways. Torako had been so _stupid_ to forget that she’d been summoned, way back when they were dealing with Alû.

            “Well, well, well,” Lilith crooned, all four eyes on Dipper. “If it isn’t the strongest of us all.”

            Haji squeaked something out in Dashto. Torako patted him on the shoulder with her free hand and glanced between Lilith, Dipper, and the doorway. They had to do something, and if Lilith was so focused on Dipper, then maybe she’d move away from the portal and let them do what they needed to.

            “Lilith,” Dipper said, a slight, hard warble in his voice. “Why don’t you get out of the way?”

            “Oh, but I couldn’t do that,” Lilith said, sweeping one scaly hand to rest on her chin. She grinned, wide, sharp teeth like needles. “I’ve been summoned. I’m _honor-bound_ to respect that, you know.”

            Dipper snarl-snapped something that made Lilith laugh. Two of her other arms folded loose around her waist, and a tail materialized behind her to snap and curl in the air, lazy and amused and dangerous. Torako thought she’d die of a heart attack with how fast hers was going, and if she was that unsettled then Haji had to be about ten times worse. Torako leaned down, slow, because she wasn’t going to risk drawing attention through sudden movements.

            “Haji,” she whispered, eyes still up on Lilith. “Listen. When I say go, we’re going to enter the pocket dimension, okay?”

            Haji sucked in a deep breath. “Are you _sick_?” he hissed, with more vitriol and power than she’d heard from him so far. Stress did funny things to people; apparently it made him grow a stronger spine. “We will die!”

            “We’ll die if we stay here in the middle of a fight between demons,” Torako murmured back. “Our best bet is to get into the pocket dimension, okay? Alcor will take care of Lilith.”

            “That’s what I’m _afraid of_ ,” Haji said, still trembling. “I don’t want to be dead in a new _California Incident_.”

            Behind them, Dipper spoke actual recognizable words. “And what makes you think you can stop **m҉҉̸e͟**?”

            Of course he was baiting the other demon. Of course he was, he always did that, and Torako sometimes hated him for it. Dipper had no _chill_. She leaned further down and tightened her grip on Haji’s shoulder. “Do you _want_ to be stuck out here with them?”

            “No,” Haji said, vehement.

            Above them, Lilith shifted and tittered something. Torako knew how this was going to go, how this always went (with less damage, usually, because most demons were too weak and too overconfident to last long against Alcor the Dreambender), and so she told Haji, “Then we’re going to _go_.”

            Haji moaned. Torako looked back up at the demon in front of them, and froze when she saw her eyes on _Torako_. Gulping, Torako tightened her grip on the Cultbasher, palm suddenly sweaty.

            “What’s this?” Lilith purred, leaning over a little. Torako deepened her stance, every muscle primed to move at the slightest provocation. “Did you bring a _starter_ , sweetheart? How thoughtful of you.”

            Before Torako could blink, Dipper was in front of them, bristling and snarling and leaking gold smoke. “Ţ̶̶h̢ę̢y͏̕’̸̨r̕͜͡e͟͡͠ ͢ **m̸͞i͞n̡e͡**.”

            Lilith laughed. “Well, then,” she said, dropping all seven of her arms, six-fingered hands spread wide and tipped with gleaming nails. “I guess that means when I devour you, I inherit them as well.”

            Torako pressed her forehead into Dipper’s back, between the crux of his shoulders. “You deal with her,” she murmured, “and I’ll get Ben. Catch up when you can. Deal?”

            He grew darker, wings broadening and sharpening, shadow-deep and flat. “ **D҉̕e̢̛a̴̡͜l͡҉** ,” he growled, and then he was larger, smokier and crashing into Lilith from the side. Lilith shrieked out a laugh, and the air trembled with demonic power.

            If Torako weren’t used to living with a demon, she’d have been frozen by it. As it were, she gripped Haji’s jacket and pulled him towards the portal into the pocket dimension, arms and legs straining with the effort of moving fast with so much weight.

            But it was worth it. It was worth it. Even as the building shook overhead, raining dust down, even as the two demons took their fight into the open skies above, even as Torako managed to pull Haji into the dimension with her, Torako knew it was worth it.

            Bentley would be coming home.

* * *

            Bentley had lost track of how many doors he’d blown in around door number thirty-four. Fantino hadn’t been in any of them, and the halls had been empty and blank and increasingly static. It made the something under his skin buzz, louder and louder, and it put Bentley increasingly on edge.

            “Fuckitall,” Bentley hissed, staggering against a door that he hadn’t destroyed yet and clutching his head. He was developing a headache, because of course, and because even with ridiculous excess energy warping his body and fueling his sigils, something like forty sigils in a row was bound to take some kind of toll. He took deep breaths, in and out, and tried to calm the headache. On his fifth exhale, his body hummed, and the white walls flashed red before bleeding into pink.

            “That doesn’t look promising,” Bentley said, sweat falling down the sides of his face and collecting on his back. He pressed the bridge of his nose with bloody fingers, his other arm aching and pulsing with the groove he’d scratched into the top of it. He grit his teeth. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to do this after all. If he hadn’t been unable to reliably sleep without nightmares, Bentley would be tempted to just lie down and close his eyes. He inhaled long and slow, then exhaled in much the same way.

            Just a couple doors down the hall, he heard a door click shut. Bentley opened his eyes, looked.

            Striding away, dressed in a smart suit, was Dr. Fantino. Bentley grinned, wide, and set off after him. The walls of the pocket dimension around him warped, darkened and lightened into various shades of pink, and it made Dr. Fantino stumble just long enough that Bentley caught up to a few meters.

“Hey!” Bentley shouted. Dr. Fantino turned, their eyes widening, and Bentley closed the gap by lunging forward and slamming his fist into Dr Fantino’s face. Around them, the room wobbled and spun and they both fell to the ground. Bentley had a bad feeling about this. From the look on Dr. Fantino’s reddened face, so did they.

Bentley reached over and got his fingers bloody. Maybe Bentley wouldn’t be going home, but he could make sure Fantino got their just desserts.


	11. Haji is Not Qualified For This Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torako and Haji deal with a Murder Hallway, Dipper engages in fisticuffs with an upstart demon, and Bentley gets even (with horrifying results).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of mention of blood in this. I tried to tone it down, especially after I realized how many times I was writing the word in a row, but be forewarned.

**Chapter 10: Haji is Not Qualified For This Situation**

            The pocket dimension was, in two words, clearly unstable.

            The walls glowed soft pink. This wouldn’t have been so bad if shards of them weren’t flickering brighter or darker, or if they didn’t seem to sharpen or blur in Torako’s vision. She didn’t like that very much. She especially didn’t like it when a bit of the wall and the floor decided to suddenly _not exist_ before fuzzing back into place. That was not, she thought, somewhere she was going to put her feet. Or hands. Or anything.

            “This is bad,” Haji said, eyes wide. “This is very very bad.”

            Torako wholeheartedly agreed with that assessment. On the other hand… “Outside won’t be better,” she said, because Haji had taken a step back.

            Haji went a little ashen at that statement. A moment later, he started laughing that low, awkward laugh you made when everything was awful and you really wanted to cry but couldn’t. Torako wanted to join him, because talk about being stuck between a wave and a cliff. Somebody had to keep most of their wits about them, though, and Torako wasn’t ready to have a breakdown until she got Bentley tucked into bed at home and she found a quiet place to lose her shit as silently as possible. So.

            “Yeah,” she said. “It’s pretty awful.” The walls glitched again, and she knew that she was going to have nightmares about this place forever. “Can you show me to where Bentley is?”

            Haji stopped laughing abruptly. “Yes,” he said. “It is—his room is near the center. Dr. Fantino said, maybe, that the patient—Bentley,” he said, at the side-eye Torako shot him, “Bentley, yes, good Bentley, the Bentley, he is maybe dangerous. And him leaving would kill us all.”

            Torako grimaced a little and waved Haji in front of her to navigate. His statement about everybody dying wasn’t…necessarily untrue. “Cool, right, of course not, understandable but all right then. Anybody else in here?”

            “Uh,” Haji said. He kept glancing at her, and Torako’s outstretched hand, and then down the hall and back again. Eventually, he kind of shuffled in front of her. It was kind of like he was blindfolded and knew the floor had a good chance of disappearing on him, which, fair. “Nurse Paulsen should be here, but maybe is not now. It is…not nice here. I would run.”

            “All right, Nurse Paulsen,” Torako said, following behind Haji and keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. A buzz began to build in her ears, obnoxiously low. “Anybody else?”

            Haji hummed and stepped down. “There is also sometimes—” Two feet in front of them, a section of the hallway flickered and darkened, red like black cherries. He shrieked. Torako yelped herself, and they stopped still. The buzzing in her ears reached a crescendo, and then abruptly cut out, the silence ringing almost as much as the buzzing did. Slowly, the space in front of them paled to something approaching a pastel.

            Heart in her chest, Torako swallowed and tried to get her suddenly dry mouth to work. “Would they, you know, still be here?”

            “No,” Haji says, and something about the way he says it made Torako think they weren’t going looking for them anyways. That in turn made Torako feel a little mercenary, but…she had other priorities at that moment. “Can—please, you first?”

            “You know this place better than me,” Torako said, but obliged and slid one foot slowly onto the section that had gone all murder-theme on them. The floor held. She put some weight on it, and then more, and then pulled Haji across the section before he could think twice. He let out a strangled gurgle until they were on supposedly safe ground again. From there, Torako had to hold him up so he wouldn’t collapse.

            Haji held onto her so tight his knuckles were white and her arm started aching. Probably she’d bruise, after they made it out of this place. They passed another door, and a couple steps beyond it, the hallway trembled. A noise like thunder rumbled, deafening, from the floor beneath them, and Torako cursed before making for door. Something in her recognized that it was solid, more solid than the rest of the place. Haji nearly tripped over her in his haste to follow, and they had their hands on the door for about two seconds before the floor vanished from underneath them.

            Torako screamed, sliding her feet up onto the scant baseboard around the doorframe and jamming the Cultbasher into the frame on the opposite side. Haji screamed too, and Torako had only that to warn her before his weight was pulling her down into nothing. She nearly overbalanced, and her heart shot up into her throat before she managed to over-correct back into the door, which held.

            She looked down at Haji, clinging to her arm. His eyes were opened as wide as they could be, and his nose was flaring with every panicked breath. He was whimpering. Torako grit her teeth and gripped Haji back.

            “Hold on,” she said, fear making her voice high, and then she pushed herself to bridge the gap of the doorframe. She connected. The motion set Haji swinging and her arm aching, and also Haji screaming again. It was lost in the deepness below. Torako looked down, and then settled her gaze on Haji’s because she didn’t want to look too long into whatever _that_ was.

            “Hold _on_ ,” she said again. Torako took a breath to fortify herself, braced her back against the door and set the hilt of Cultbasher awkwardly in her teeth, then reached down with her other hand and pulled with all her might. Her core trembled, her arms tensed and strained, and Torako slowly lifted Haji up out of the depths of nothing and into the realm above it.

            Haji, struck silent, held on with an iron grip, then leaned back against Torako, heavy on her but thankfully not with all his weight on her arms. He clung, tight, like she was the last bit of driftwood in a storm out at sea. Torako wrapped one arm around him and used the opportunity of a free hand to pull Cultbasher out of her mouth. Bleh. That had not been a great taste; she needed to talk to Dipper about cleaning the damn thing.

            They stayed like that, the abyss open below them and the doorframe their only haven. Torako found herself wondering. “Haji?” she asked, very purposefully looking across the hall at the swirling wall and not at the Murder Hole the floor had become.

            Haji managed a strangled sound into her shoulder. Torako would take that.

            “How many doors are there in this place?”

            He made a sound like a dying seal. Torako was about to take that to mean the swoop of horror in her stomach was validated, but then he found actual English words and said, “Many. Lots many.”

            “Oh thank fuck,” Torako said. She chanced a look up and felt her stomach turn over, again, because _up_ was also a disquieting void of darkness and she Did Not Like It. Torako very quickly found solace in the fact that there seemed to actually be something across the way. This was despite the fact it bent and moved unnaturally, like it was pretending to be water. Torako had spent her childhood, her adolescence by the ocean. Even if the color had been right, even if it reflected light the same way real water did, Torako would know it wasn’t real just by how it shifted and swirled.

            Haji laughed again. It sounded like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

            “Hey, stay with me,” Torako said. She stared into the fake ocean wall. It ebbed and flowed in all the wrong ways. “You can’t…check out. Not be here. We have to—have to find Bentley.”

            Haji groaned. The wall across them pulsed, soothing, pale pinks and rose reds and soft whites. Torako was really more of a purple person herself.  

            “We…” Torako said, and trailed off. She couldn’t look away. The more she looked the more she saw sea, the more she saw sea the more she wanted to go to it, even though everything inside her was screaming that it was wrong. “We have to…”

            “We have to look away from the wall,” Torako choked out. She was torn in two; something that was clearly not her wanted to go, and everything else wanted to stay. The former was winning, whispering (except not) in her ears to just let go.

“Wait, the wall?”

“We _have to_.” Torako couldn’t even say what she wanted to. Helpless frustration brewed in her chest, deep and ugly. Her limbs twitched, she rocked forward, and then back. Torako took in as full a breath she could, expanding her lungs as far as she could and—lost. She went to push off the door with arms that were no longer hers, but Haji suddenly draped against her and was saying something about how that was _not_ what they wanted to do. She ached with the need to agree, but could only let out a ragged sound of despair. The compulsion inside her braced the arm with Cultbasher against the door behind her.

            “Look away from the wall!” Haji said.

“The wall,” Torako agreed, both her and the compulsion in control of her body. Across, the wall moved more and more like the ocean, all the parts of it that frightened Torako late at night. “Yes. The wall.”

“Shit—wait, Bentley!” Haji said, a desperate edge in his suddenly shriller voice. “Bentley! We have to—to get Bentley! Bentley, your friend, good  Bentley!”

            Torako seized on it like it was the only lifeline from a boat in a raging storm. The world around them was quiet. “Bentley?”

            “Yes,” Haji said. “Bentley!”

            She pushed back against the odd compulsion, just long enough to lean back heavier. Then the compulsion kicked back in, overwhelming in its domination, but the few seconds Haji had bought by invoking Bentley’s name were just barely enough: there was an odd pressure on her, like gravity had fallen away but was suddenly heavy on her again, and the floor returned to normal. The wall quit doing its best, most terrifyingly uncanny impression of the ocean with all the wrong colors and faded to a light mauve. The odd not-whispering in her ears died down, and Torako didn’t get down from where she was perched against the door for a while.

            “I hate this place,” she said, finally. Next time something like that happened, she was closing her fucking eyes.

            “Me too,” Haji said. He was very, very reluctant to let go of her and put his feet on the floor. It stayed solid under him, and Torako was trembling when she finally trusted it enough to support her weight. Torako peered down the hall, the flickering length of it. It ran impossibly long, but there was a section several doors down that looked like an intersection.

            “Are we aiming for that?” she asked, pointing one finger at it. It was so far away, and it would take forever at their current pace of _glacial_.

            Haji squinted, then nodded. “Yes, there,” he said. “We go right. And then left, and then there is his room.”

            Torako eyed the closest door and made a decision. “Okay,” she said, then picked Haji up and started running like she was back in college on the hurling team and was making the winning play. Except, you know, more danger. The buzzing swelled in her ears, and she hurtled into the doorway she’d been aiming for. No sooner had she done so did the walls tremble before sharpening like glass, harsh and devastating. Torako’s breath hitched in her throat, and Haji dug his fingers into her shoulder, eyes wide.

            As they stood there and waited for the wave to pass, Haji said, “Outside would be better.”

            “That is…” Torako said, on the brink of screaming, “entirely possible. Yes. Maybe.”

            If it had been anybody _other_ than Bentley, Torako would have been long gone. As it was, she was staring at the backs of her eyelids, untrusting of whatever this hellhole had to offer. The pressure in her ears built and built until all she could hear was the drumbeat of her heart, frantic and desperate for relief.

            Torako waited for the pressure to ease before opening her eyes, and then waited a hot second to listen to the silence before her feet were on the ground and she was running, Haji yelling something in Dashto over her shoulder. Her feet hit the ground hard, the sound reverbing around them, mixing with the harsh drag of her breath. She nearly made it to the door closest to the corner when the next wave of oddness hit.

            Underneath her, the floor swelled, and buckled. Torako wobbled, nearly losing her balance, and ended up staggering to the door. She’d thrust Haji up against it when her legs felt like they were being lit on fire, agonizingly slowly and thoroughly. Torako screamed, and it was all she could do to keep Haji up and off the floor, dropping to her knees hard and dropping her Cultbasher as she did so.

            Very quickly, Torako was only able to focus on two things: the white-hot pain of her legs, centered in her feet and shins and knees and drilling deep, agonizing holes into her bones, and the pressure of Haji on her shoulders. Torako screamed, and screamed, but there was no sound beyond the wild crackling of what had to be flames, on and inside her.

            Eventually, the pain died away, and she found herself leaning her head against the door, panting harsh breaths, tears dripping wet down her face and mouth dry. Her arms trembled, and there was a numb kind of pins-and-needles happening in her legs. She was afraid to turn around and see what was there. She didn’t want to look.

            There was a tentative hand on her back. A moment later, Haji said, “We…we need to go.”

            Torako sobbed. “I can’t,” she said, harsh-throated.

            “Bentley,” Haji said, and slid down the side of her back to stand on his own.

            She bit back an awful noise and closed her eyes. _I can’t_ , she thought, and then she started to push herself onto her feet. Which she could barely feel, but okay, whatever. There was the scrape of metal against something foreign, a sound she could barely recognize, and Haji took her hand. He pressed the wrapped hilt of Cultbasher into her palm, and she used it to lever herself into a standing position.

            When she looked down, her legs looked fine. She was wearing pants, though, so maybe it was just hiding the damage. She felt—achy, and tingly, and all kinds of numb down there. Torako wasn’t sure she wanted to feel anything, with what had just happened. _I can’t_ , she thought, and then she turned around, stiff-jointed.

            “Let’s go,” Haji said, his arm in her elbow. They pulled back out into the hallway, Torako limping a little. They rounded the corner, and Torako blinked to make sure that what she was seeing wasn’t some kind of mirage.

            There was Dr. Fantino, on their back, splayed and unmoving.

            Above them was Bentley, except wrong, hair long and skin strange and blood seeping out of his arm and his knuckles. He was draped in a shapeless white shift that did nothing to hide how much weight he’d lost in the two weeks she’d been searching for him. The hallway there was oddly stable, in a kind of violent, vibrating way. Bentley’s—was it really him? Too thin, too thin, Bentley?— head was bowed, and he was whispering something in Dr. Fantino’s ear.

            Torako took a shuffling step forward, Haji just a little bit behind her. “Bentley?” she said, and somehow the sound carried louder than she’d thought. Bentley stilled, then his face snapped up, round eyes wide and long bangs falling in his face, wrong wrong wrong and all disfigured. He actually had _stubble._ Torako had known him for over a decade, and she’d seen stubble that thick on him like twice. She met Bentley’s eyes—mismatched, like the rest of him, one darker and one lighter, and the difference was dizzying—and felt her own eyes tear up. It was him. He was changed, he wasn’t all right, but it was him. Torako’s next step was stronger.

            Then, Bentley took in a shaking breath, shoulders going slack, and he whispered in a voice loud enough to break mountains, “No.”

* * *

            Dipper retained enough presence of mind to herd the insignificant little snit of a demon challenging him (him!!) away from the fragile anchorstones. With a snarl, he dug his claws into two of Lilith’s many arms and threw her through the ceiling. Stone crumbled. Wood creaked and splintered. Both gave way in a messy explosion, torn apart with demonic force. Chips and sharp, jagged needles of wood rained down, mixed through with powdered stone and ragged rubble. Dipper pushed them aside, and they fell in a ring around the anchorstones. Then, he fixed his sights on the demon upstart above him. She leered down at him.

“Coming, honey?” she simpered in rustic Greek.

Dipper flared his wings, bared his rows upon rows of teeth, and shot up to put her in her place. He tore off one of her arms, and tossed it to the ground where it bubbled and writhed in slow, agonizing death. She sunk her many talons into him—shoulder, chest, sides, hand, hip. Lilith laughed, bright and broad. He shrieked back at her. Golden ichor dripped down his brickening arms, blood hot enough to steam, fury potent enough to cut pockmarks in the stone floor below. Dipper snapped his jaws at Lilith, who did him the injustice of not even flinching while she smiled, wide wide wide enough to display her single rows of needle-sharp teeth. They were white enough to burn, white enough to freeze, and sharp enough to shred through cliffsides. The insurgent demon, the stupid idiot holding him flexed her many arms, as if to tear his physical form apart. The tiny, smothered human part of him cried out in insignificant fear, but the rest of him saw—

_—blackened earth stretching to the edges of the horizon, flat earth where there were once mountains, all trace of the cities that once stood proudly in their valleys turned to ash, the only thing of note the crumbling anchorstones, light flickering, dying, and an inhuman wail that turned the air into something—_

—he saw—

_—liliths carcass, tattered and glimmering with carefully accumulated power, hanging from one hand as he clenched her soul, now h̶is͡͏ hi̴s̶҉͞ **h̕͠͡҉҉i̡̢͜͠͡ş҉̴** , the heartbeat of it flickering tamely against the center of his brick-armored palm, everything under them on fire, the sweet smell of cooking meat prompting him to tear into the soul and swallow the foe that had made him crash into the stones, those stones, the foe that made him **k͢͡i̷̷̧l͜͡͠l̷͝ ҉̡h̵͟͝i̷̧͘҉s̷** —_

—he saw things both wonderful and awful, glorious and horrifying. He wanted to—he needed to—this demon, who had taken up the mantle of Lilith and grown to heights many before and after her could only strive futilely for, had to be consumed. Her claws dug deep inside him. Dipper screamed out a laugh before, quicker than sound, sinking his teeth into the meat of one of her upper shoulders. Her grip slackened, she wailed loud enough to shake the city to its foundations, and Dipper thought— _Mizar—_ Mizar, his Mizar was in that city, it wasn’t safe they couldn’t fight there, they had to—

Lilith’s acidic-sweet blood lay heavy over his many teeth, on is tongue, when Dipper reached and pulled and then blipped them both into a remote part of the Hindu Kush mountains, right over the sluggish, malevolently flowing Kabul River. The fumes from it wafted up, lazy, and burned even demonic skin on contact. Dipper squawked, Lilith screeched, and they both retreated to a safe distance from the river. It wasn’t nearly so bad in the city, Dipper remembered, but apparently that wasn’t the same out here. Probably the protection charms, or rather the lack thereof.

Dipper bled gold, and green dribbled down the sides of his mouth, hissed across the lower half of his face. He stared down Lilith—he was floating slightly higher than she was, of course—and noted the arm he’d torn off was healing into something scabbing, something weak. He wiped his fingers across his lips, looked at the blood on his black-gold-brick fingers, and smiled. Gold smoke escaped his mouth when he laughed.

“N̕ot̛ ̸ba̷d̸,” Dipper said. “B̨ut…u͜n̕s̶a͡tis͡fy̛in͜g.”

He didn’t lie. He was Alcor the Dreambender, Weaver of Nightmares, the Twin Star. He was a near-impossible entity; demonic energy and power twisted inextricably with human growth and ingenuity. The only satisfaction he would gain from Lilith would be decimating her into oblivion, her soul sliding down his throat and her body a tattered corpse left to disintegrate into the ether of the world.

Lilith tilted her chin up, daring him to tear her human-like throat out. Her eyes narrowed, and her ears flicked back. Then she blinked, and a sly, sharp smile spread across her face. Dipper flexed his claws.

“I always wondered what it would be like,” Lilith rumbled in ancient Sumerian, like that was supposed to impress him., “to consume you.” Dipper couldn’t help the threatening growl that resounded from his chest, couldn’t help the way his hair, like weightless void, rose up and bristled in an inversion of a halo around his head. Lilith raised one of her gold-tipped claws and smeared it over her lips. The metaphysical fabric of her unraveled there, melting, weakening, but Lilith grinned even wider than before. The force of it stretched into the sides of her face, dug into them unnaturally. Cute, Dipper thought. He’d done better.

“Oh,” she said. Her voice deepened, like water in a well that broke down through the Earth’s crust to its rigid outer mantle. Her form buzzed, fizzed with a sudden influx of energy, and her eyes went wide, greedy. She looked at him as though he were a morsel to devour. “ _Oh_. Yes, yes, this is—”

Dipper opened his mouth and screeched, the mountains trembling and the sky above them bursting clear from the force of it. Dipper didn’t even think, was simply away one second and, in the next, on the insignificant upstart who thought she could handle his power. His power! His will! Things he had spent millennia enduring and growing, the things he had given up his human future for! It was profanity in the basest sense of the word; to Lilith, he should be a God, and she was committing sacrilege. It would not go unpunished.

He shifted, hands growing sharper, legs and feet bending into forms that would better tear, and he seized three of her arms, he ripped them off her body in a rush of splitting skin and cracking bone. Brutal, vicious spite and the indignancy of the powerful spurred him to tear a chunk out of another arm before her cloven hooves struck him in the gut, forcing him away (but not without his talons tearing her along her sides, scraping manifested flesh away from the body of her) and up.

Preening at once again being higher, further from the danger below and in his rightful place, Dipper dropped two of the arms. His stomach erupted from his back, reaching out with smoky tentacles to snatch them up for a snack later on. The third he held, staring Lilith in the eyes as he lowered his jaw to stuff the top quarter of the arm into his mouth. He snapped his teeth together, slicing through to the battery-acid flesh surrounding stone-hard bone (or what counted as bone). The part of Dipper that was still just shy of thirteen prompted him to chew with his mouth open, smacking his lips as obnoxiously as possible. Lilith’s eyes were all wide, venomous green, and she positively broiled in jealousy, anger, and just a touch—just a _touch_ —of fear.

 _More_ , Dipper thought. _M̢or̕e._ She had to fear him more, it was his right, it was _owed_ to him. Alcor the Dreambender chewed his bite some more, dwelled a little over the sparks of power he could feel rushing into him from just masticating, then opened his mouth and let it all fall out to the river below. He maintained eye contact as he did so.

Lilith screamed, fury overriding the fear. Dipper frowned, because his intention had been intimidation— _look at me, I’m so strong I don’t even need the measly power your body holds_ —and not aggravation, but then Lilith was screeching towards him, her power stinking up the valley around them, and Dipper was occupied. He dropped her arm.

Her talons raked down his face, sparks flying against hardened skin. The tips of them caught and skittered in the golden lines separating the bricks on his face. She tugged, and a blackened layer peeled off, thin as rice paper and fragile as sheet metal. Dipper growled and lashed out, slashing his claws across _her_ face and finding an unprotected eye to dig into. She yowled, then reached out and snarled her fingers in his hair before tugging hard. Yelping, Dipper kicked out with still-altered feet, forcing her down and his head back. The pain was bad but not; even as Dipper cried he was laughing, high-pitched, like crackling cellophane.

“I hate you!” Lilith said, smoky not-hair trailing from between her fingers. She swiped out at him, vicious, but he danced up and then lashed down, sending her closer to the searing vapor rising off the Kabul River. “I hate you!”

Dipper brushed tendrils of his stomach across the last her uppermost arms. They touched, then flared, and consumed. Lilith screamed and snapped her own flesh off to escape death, then ventured further down into the poisonous mists. It ate at her, but she stayed there, three green eyes glowing through them at her. Dipper stared down, and wondered if this was enough. She feared him. She hated him. He thought, maybe, that she was finally taking Alcor the Dreambender as seriously as he deserved.

Her soul pulsed in her throat. Dipper looked at it a second too long, and Lilith opened her needle-tooth mouth and hissed at him, harsh, defiant. “I hope whatever you desire escapes you forever,” Lilith said, even as magical burns spread over her body. “May your Flock be quartered, may your power wane and may your True Name shackle you to fates worse than—”

This was the demon between him and Bentley, Dipper remembered, like the sun bursting up and over the horizon. This demon—this upstart—was ready to fight him to a bitter, terrible death. Dipper blinked, and looked around them.

Their surroundings were devastated. The flora was blackened and corrupted, there was a chunk out of the mountainside that looked like something with big claws had torn through it, and the rest of the valley didn’t seem to be faring much better. Below them, the Kabul river bubbled, but even it had changed somewhat, altered by the energy they had been emitting, were emitting. Dipper cast his eyes on the rising vapor, and it seemed to be thinning. How much time had passed? He suddenly wondered. How long had he been in this battle, drawing things out because he wanted to be—

Suddenly, Dipper understood why Lilith was there. Dipper snarled. Rocks fell down the mountain, triggering a landslide that hit the river and disintegrated into it, hissing and sputtering loud as thunder, louder than they had rumbled down over each other. Bitter lemon and rancid vinegar hit his nose. Dipper stared down at the demon still cursing him, low and with venomous hatred, with scalding jealousy.

She would not take any more of his time.

Whisper soft, he slid down to her level. Before she could react beyond recognition of his being there, Dipper parted the flesh at her throat and closed his talons around her soul. He pulled it out, gentle, and pushed her body down to fall into the river. Moving on instinct, he blipped away from the river, even as it exploded with the power vested in the demon’s body. Murky, magic-rotted water spilled up and out in a forceful geyser, splashed against the mountains and carved smooth craters in them. Above it all, Dipper held Lilith’s soul loosely in his hand. It flickered, loud, angry and fearful and envious, an irregular pressure against the heart of his palm.

He lifted it to his mouth, and swallowed it down. Immediately, the power of it flooded through him. His wounds healed, his energy rejuvenated, and Dipper closed his eyes to bask in the feeling of being at full-power. One second, two, and then he reached inside to check his connection with Bentley.

Nothing.

Dipper’s eyes flew open. He paid no mind to the slowly clearing waters of the Kabul River, only reached deeper into the space where the connection should be. Panic swelled up in him, because there was nothing, not even the dim glow he’d been slowly getting used to. His throat closed in and opened up all at once, and he checked again, again, again again _again againagainaga—_

A flicker, a spark. Mizar, living and breathing. Then nothing. Moments later, the dim glow returned, and Dipper held onto it tight but felt it cut out again. Cut out, then come back, and out and back, and Dipper swiveled to stare in the direction of Kabul, of the broken townhouse with the open space and the anchorstones standing proud in its center. He reached out, and saw—saw the wards and the runes breaking, the connection dismantling, rotting away from the inside, a candle in the wind.

            It was almost gone.

            A dull roar in his ears, Dipper froze for only a second—then, in the next, he took hold of all the power he’d just consumed, and blipped.

            The mountains, irrevocably changed, were silent. The river below gurgled, and moved in a rush, waters clear enough to see the stripped stone and melted-smooth bedrock. The sky remained clear, and no birds still lived to sing into the air. The only sound was of water—clean rushing forward, murky fizzing and changing and renewing until there was no difference between it and what lay ahead.  

* * *

The moment Fantino saw Bentley dip his fingers in fresh blood, their eyes widened and they pushed Bentley off of them. They weren’t strong, but Bentley had spent essentially weeks doing very little by the way of moving, and he’d expelled a lot of blood in the past thirty minutes. Bentley rolled off of them with a grunt, his ceramic shard skittering out of his hand and across to the other side of the hallway. He barely remembered to shift his weight so that he’d come up mostly on his feet; it worked. Bentley managed to keep his balance with minimal wobbling, and took the opportunity to launch himself at Fantino, who was still sitting up.

Bentley hit Fantino square in the shoulders. Fantino hit the ground with a grunt, eyes squinting shut, hair falling a little out of its perfect coif. Scrambling, Bentley set his weight across Fantino’s gut and ripped open their shirt so that he could actually access some goddamn skin. Fantino’s eyes shot open, and they reached not to push him off again, but for their pants pocket—

 _A controller_ , Bentley thought, and whip-quick smacked Fantino across the face as hard as he could. Fantino’s head snapped to the side, pale skin blooming bright red in ruddy pinpricks. Fantino cried out and stopped reaching for their pocket. Palm stinging, Bentley put his sigilling plans on hold and reached back into Fantino’s pockets himself. In one, he found a slim pen, one that thrummed against his hand at a different frequency from the energy under his skin. Bentley didn’t know how he knew that, he just _did_. It was, from what Bentley remembered, remarkably similar to the stylus Fantino had used during their farce of an interview.

He held it up, wiggled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Looking for this?”

Fantino looked up at him out of the corner of their eyes, and then pushed up slow enough for Bentley to see it coming but fast enough that Bentley couldn’t stop it. Bentley tipped backwards with a short shout, hand fisting around the pen, and Fantino lunged over Bentley’s knees fast enough that Bentley heard Fantino’s shoulder crack. Their fingers brushed the bottom of Bentley’s wrist, then gripped it. Bentley yelled, and scooched back even as Fantino tried to pull Bentley’s hand closer to him. Normally, Bentley could resist. Now, though, Bentley found his left arm giving in, bit by bit. Bentley sucked in a breath that then refused to leave, caught in the thought of being unable to move, unable to do _anything_ as this monster got away, got away, and the sigils would all be for nothing if that happened. So Bentley looked up at Fantino’s face and made a bad decision.

Bentley reared up and slammed his forehead right into Fantino’s nose.

The cartilage cracked and Bentley immediately felt wetness against his face, hot and sticky and coppery. Fantino yelled and let go of Bentley’s wrist. Bentley, who now had a headache, pushed back using his legs. If he kicked Fantino in the shin, well, that wasn’t exactly going to break Bentley’s heart, now was it?

They both breathed hard, about a body’s length of space between them. Bentley watched Fantino clutch their nose, fingers already slippery and red. Their eyes stared hot holes into Bentley’s, and Bentley didn’t even care.

“Fuck. You.” Bentley said before gripping the stylus in both hands and moving to snap it in half. Unfortunately, it was made of reinforced metal, and the significance of the moment was lost. Bentley struggled to make it break but gave up when Fantino started to shift more squarely onto his feet. Instead, Bentley turned—and oh wow cool that made his headache bloom even worse—and launched the stylus down the hall. It sailed in a long, silver arc, gleaming under the lights overhead before it hit the ground beyond with a clatter. It rolled, way down, and Bentley watched as it was eaten up by the slowly encroaching darkness.

Bentley blinked. The floor had been there, like, five minutes ago. So had the hallway. And the ceiling. But there was only inky void approaching, and the walls were turning a deep mauve at the edges of it. They seemed to crawl, and shimmered more on Bentley’s left side than his right.

His skin crawled with more than foreign power. Behind him, Fantino shifted, and Bentley turned to see them on their feet and walking (stumbling) the fuck away like they fucking owned the place. Which was true, but Bentley was about to bring them to their knees. Hopefully, literally, and because he’d physically wrestled them down there.

“You fuckface,” Bentley said, forcing himself up onto his hands and feet. He swayed a little with the motion. “Get the fuck back here.”

“Telling me to do so does not make me inclined to,” Fantino said. They stopped moving forward. Bentley paused, then pushed himself up all the way. The blood rushing down from his head made his vision spotty for a moment, but he blinked it away because—was that _strain_ in Fantino’s voice? “Goodbye, Mizar.”

Bentley inhaled sharp through the gaps between his gritted teeth. Anger lent him strength again, and Bentley took two large steps before launching into Fantino and tackling them to the ground yet again. This time, Bentley made sure to jab his (now very bony) elbow into Fantino’s back. Fantino arched back with a cry, and Bentley took the opportunity to lift some of his weight off to claw Fantino onto said back. It took him a few tries, but eventually he managed it, and then reared back at the utter cold vitriol on Fantino’s face.

“Pathetic,” Fantino snarled, then reached up and wrenched at Bentley’s hair. Bentley screamed, pulled left with the force of it, and they rolled closer to the wall. Fantino gripped Bentley’s hair even tighter and jerked hard enough that Bentley’s head tipped back and tears swelled in his eyes.

“Let go!” Bentley howled, one hand scrabbling at Fantino’s hand, the other patting at the floor, searching for something. Anything.

“You’ve ruined _everything_ ,” Fantino said, low and furious and also a little nasally. Blood streamed down from their crooked nose, over their lips and chin, smeared from where they had tried to hold themselves together. They leaned in, closer, to murmur into Bentley’s ear. Bentley’s hair went slack, and then was pulled even harder than before, and he could hardly hear anything over the sound of his own yelling ringing in his ears.

Fantino waited, then let the hair go slack again. Bentley opened his eyes, breathing harshly, to glare at Fantino. His vision swum, the sparse glitter of energy over Fantino’s turning large and unfocused through a sheen of tears. His head pounded. The buzzing under his skin intensified.

“You’ve destroyed my research,” Fantino said, once Bentley was quiet. “You’ve made a mess of everything. The least you could do was let me get out of here safely.”

Bentley couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him. His right hand continued to cast out, slowly. “Are you even hearing yourself? What the fuck kind of crazy world do you live in? _You_ kidnapped _me_!”

“You wouldn’t have come willingly, and my research—” Bentley’s pinky touched something sharp. It stung for a moment, but Bentley found it in himself to pull whatever it was towards his hand.

“Fuck your research!” Bentley yelled. He bared his teeth in a snarl, forgetting that Fantino’s hand was clenched in his hair, forgetting that Fantino was above him for a split second. “Fuck it! This is my _life_ , you psychopath!”

Fantino opened their mouth, a sneer tugging at the corners of his nose, and Bentley slashed up in a wide arc to score Fantino across the face with the ceramic shard. It bit into the creases of his fingers even as it sliced into Fantino’s cheek, their nose, the skin right above their eye and through the arc of their brow. Fantino screamed and recoiled. Bentley took a deep, desperate breath, and then kicked Fantino back as hard as he could. Fantino stumbled back with a gasp and a grunt, and then lay limp on the floor. Bentley managed to bring himself to his knees and looked out into the hallway beyond.

The encroaching darkness was closer. Too close. Bentley could hear something like and unlike voices coming from it, could feel the weight of something on him, something foreign and heavy and something he didn’t like. So he reached out with his bloody hand, forced it steady, and began to draw a sigil. It might backfire, he thought, but if it worked—if it worked, he would have his revenge and more on Fantino.

“What are you doing?” Fantino had managed to sit up.

Bentley finished the final curve of the stasis sigil, slowly cutting off the power he was providing to it. The sigil glittered in his vision, almost shining with how much he’d poured into it. He looked up at Fantino, and grinned. “Something risky.”

Fantino looked at the sigil on the ground and recoiled. “You’re going to kill us—”

In one smooth Wataru loop-set, Bentley split the sigil apart. There was a tangible burst of air, Bentley’s hair flying back with the force. Light split out from it and raced across the floor, following invisible seams until it hit the decay approaching them and stopped it in its tracks. The line of light pulsed, slowly, and Bentley closed his eyes and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. When he opened his eyes, the space beyond the line of decay was starting to shift in a way that Bentley thought could be described as ‘glitchy.’ More importantly, though, Fantino was no longer in front of him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bentley groaned. He stumbled up and turned around to see Fantino walking away, slow and unhurried. It struck an ugly chord in him, that Fantino didn’t seem to take him as enough of a threat by himself. Bentley took an angry step forward. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Leaving, before you kill us both,” Fantino said, and kept walking.

Bentley groaned. “I can’t believe this,” he said to himself. Fantino wasn’t exactly wrong, but they needed to just _stop_. So Bentley grit his teeth and stalked after Fantino.

Fantino whirled around, hair whipping with the force of it. “I am _walking away_ ,” Fantino said. “You have broken my nose and cut my face and hit me several times, and I am walking away. What more do you want, you stupid boy?”

“You don’t _get_ to walk away,” Bentley snarled. He clenched the ceramic shard and kept marching forward.

“How dare you,” Fantino said, lifting their chin. “How _dare you_.”

“Easy,” Bentley said, and he struck out with his left fist, messy and feet under him all wrong but he was beyond caring about that. All he wanted to do was maybe break Fantino’s face a little more.

Fantino stepped out of the way. Bentley used the momentum to spin, somewhat unsteadily, and kick out with his right heel. It was sloppy, but enough to connect with Fantino’s gut and knock him staggering back. Bentley finished spinning around—oh, his head—and stepped forward to drive the ball of his right foot into Fantino’s hip. Fantino stumbled with a frustrated yell, and Bentley took that opportunity to snap a kick at the back of Fantino’s knee, and it dropped him like a boulder off the edge of a cliff.

With a short laugh, Bentley stepped over, reached down and set Fantino squarely on their back again. Bentley swiped blood off of Fantino’s face and set a precise paralysis sigil on their chest.

“No!” Fantino said, but Bentley was already cutting through the sigil, light-headed, and Fantino lost control of their body. Bentley looked down at Fantino from where he was crouched over them and felt a savage vindication at the sight of Fantino helpless in their own body.

“How’s that, huh?” Bentley asked, and sat down on top of Fantino because he could. He breathed hard, his arms and legs trembled, and he’d done it. He’d finally, finally put Fantino down. “How do you like being unable to move?”

Fantino’s lip curled. “That was for your own good,” they said.

“Every time you open your mouth, more shit comes out,” Bentley said, twiddling the ceramic shard between his fingers. “Why’d you go to such lengths to _control_ me, anyways, if you weren’t even going to take me seriously?”

“You’d already damaged the structural integrity of my lab,” Fantino said. “Do you even know how much money went into this?”

“Don’t care.” Bentley considered punching Fantino again, but the downside of the paralysis sigil was that it numbed the nerve endings. Fantino wasn’t feeling a thing. Instead, Bentley reached up and wiped more blood off of Fantino’s face; not because he felt bad, of course, but because he needed it for more sigils. What better use was there for it? “Should have been scared of me anyways.”

As Bentley began to draw a sigil for preservation—entwined with the heart, with the lungs, with the mind—Fantino snorted. The slight movement of their chest didn’t jostled Bentley a little, but the sigil would be fine. If it was a little imperfect, who cared? The lights flickered overhead.

“You weren’t the real threat. Alcor was.”

Bentley rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, because Alcor the Dreambender’s a demon and can consume your soul and I can’t.”

Fantino grit their teeth. Bentley glanced up from his careful work, and Fantino caught his eye. “Only a Mizar would be so cavalier.”

“You underestimate humanity,” Bentley muttered. He looked back down and continued to draw, lulled a little into something approaching meditativeness. He’d missed sigil drawing, Bentley realized. Missed the normalcy of it. He missed work, and dealing with dumb idiots in the thinktank departments and having to fix their mistakes. He missed stitching sigils into clothing, he missed a lot of things.

Bentley swallowed back tears. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be missing for very long. Not as long as Fantino, at least. Bentley finished the last curling flourish on the end of ‘heart’ that brought it through ‘lungs’ and wrapped around ‘mind’ and ended poised over ‘preservation.’ He sat back to survey his work, spanning the width of Fantino’s chest above the paralysis sigil, and answered to keep his mind off of things (people) he missed. “Anyways, sure Alcor can eat your soul. It’d be pretty bad, but like, I don’t care about your soul? I care about you, and I care about you suffering. I care about _causing_ it.”

“I see. You’re going to cause me unimaginable pain and force me to live,” Fantino said, like a tool. Bentley let out a noise of disgust. “It’s not very creative of you.”

“Yeah, which is why it was like, my first thought,” Bentley said. He took the ceramic shard and considered cutting through the skin and the sigils at the same time, but thought better because that would just get messy and too imprecise. Instead, he reached up and pulled it through Fantino’s shoulder. Fantino didn’t even twitch, and Bentley took from that cut to start the process of breaking the sigil.

“But it’s not your plan now.”

Fantino had such a big mouth. Bentley just wanted Fantino to know what was coming for them. Maybe that meant Bentley had a big mouth too, but Bentley couldn’t find it in himself to care about it, this close to the end.

“Nah. I realized I want you gone. Like, I don’t want you alive. I want every trace of you wiped from existence. I can’t do that from here but like. I can erase you. I can erase you painfully.”

Dr. Fantino looked like they didn’t understand something, so Bentley continued, a triple spiral-loop cutting through the middle of ‘lungs’ before morphing into something sharper but no less intricate. “I know sigils,” Bentley said. “I figured out this was a warded thing. Even if it wasn’t, it’s clearly a pocket dimension, and clearly an unstable one. It wouldn’t take much for an errant sigil, or twelve, to make it all come crashing down—like you were worried about, I guess.”

“You did it on purpose?” Fantino’s voice was strained. Bentley found it a little insulting that Fantino thought this had all been an accident. Like, what the hell? Bentley knew what he was doing.

“Duh,” Bentley said instead, and started breaking the final sigil in his quad-lock. “I waited until you were in here with me, you know? If I just wanted to escape, I’d do it when you weren’t here, dumbass. This place was only going to rip itself apart with you in it.”

Fantino didn’t say a word. When Bentley glanced up, their eyes were wide, face paler than it already was. The blood was made all the more apparent, even as it began to dry tacky on the skin. Bentley smiled, and looked down to finish the sigil.

It pulsed with power once, then twice, and then settled into a dull glow that Bentley was sure that nobody else could see. He closed his left eye to check, and sure enough, there was nothing. He hummed in distant interest, then turned his attention back to Fantino.

“You’ll die too,” Fantino whispered.

“Yes,” Bentley said, very carefully Not Feeling Anything About That. “But I’ll be gone in an instant. You’re going to be around for much longer.” Bentley leaned down, in direct mockery of Fantino’s actions earlier, and murmured, “I’ve made sure that you will. You like research, right? Well, now you get to find out what it’s like to be torn apart, cell by cell, in the wake of an imploding pocket dimension.”

“The pain—”

“Won’t stop your heart, and your lungs won’t collapse so easily, and your mind won’t be buried under it,” Bentley said, low and quiet. “So you’ll last a little bit at least. You’re going to feel it all until you’re well and truly—”

“Bentley?”

Bentley blinked, froze. Then, he looked up, quick, and saw—he saw—

Torako, unsteady, leaning on her Cultbasher (his Cultbasher), the other nurse that Bentley saw sometimes standing next to her. She was sweaty, her hair a little ragged and shorter than he remembered, and her legs shook underneath her. Torako’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. Then she blinked, and started to tear up, and Bentley could feel himself starting to cry too because she couldn’t be there, she couldn’t be, he was the only casualty in this equation. She took a step forward, and any thought of her being a hallucination dissipated in the face of her, trying so hard to keep going. His shoulders slumped.

“No,” he said, lost and helpless. He was the only one that was supposed to die. He’d told himself that it was okay if he died, if it meant they lived and Fantino was served his just desserts.

Torako stopped, her expression as if he’d actually punched her in the gut and laughed in her face. Which, fun fact, Bentley remembered that dream Torako had actually done that but—that wasn’t important, Torako was here when she shouldn’t be and that was just, just, “No, you can’t be here. Please. No.”

“I’m here to get you out,” Torako said, hesitant in a way that hurt Bentley right at his core. Tears dripped down his face. “Bentley, we—we have to go, this place is going to destroy itself.”

Bentley couldn’t move. Underneath him, Fantino laughed, bitter and maybe a tiny bit unhinged. “You miscalculated,” Fantino said. “You’re killing her too, now, in this kamikaze scheme of yours.”

At those words, Torako sucked in a sharp breath. She limped forward with more urgency, and Bentley found himself crumbling further under the look in her eyes. “Bentley, no,” she said. The nurse trailed behind her, wringing his hands and staring behind them every so often.

He couldn’t speak until she was right there. “I had to,” he said, quiet. Then, he pulled himself together, and said, “I _had_ to.”

The Cultbasher dragged against the floor. Torako reached out with her free hand, bent down, and pulled Bentley off Fantino. “We were coming,” she said.

“I didn’t know that,” Bentley murmured into her shoulder. He breathed in, warm leather and the floral scent of whatever body soap she’d used last filling his nose. Now that he was there, Bentley didn’t ever want to leave. His eyes burned, and he choked on the next words. “It’s been so _long_ , Torako.”

Below them, Fantino inhaled sharply. The ground shook. “No,” Fantino said, weakly. “No. No.”

Torako slid her chin onto Bentley’s head, into Bentley’s hair. It was bony, as always, and Bentley found himself not even caring that it hurt a little. She was quiet, and then he felt her throat vibrate against his temple. “Yes,” she said. “You got the wrong one. It was never him.”

The bat shifted and scraped against the ground. Bentley didn’t know what she was talking about. Bentley didn’t care, shrouded in Torako.

Under his skin, the energy buzzed, spiked. Bentley reared back in surprise, looked Torako in the eyes at the same time the nurse gripped Torako’s elbow and said, “Torako, we have to—”

Bentley didn’t know quite how to describe what happened next. It was like—like somebody had punched through a glass window in a vacuum. For one moment, they were suspended mid-air. The silence was deafening. Torako’s eyes were wide, dark and lovely, and Bentley could see the individual strands in them in some odd, hyper-aware state of being. Her hand gripped the cloth at his back, painstakingly slowly. He took in a deep breath of air, aware of the fading light around them, to say that—that he loved her, that he was sorry, that he wished she could live, that he wished he could be everything she wanted him to be but never expected him to be, that she was the best thing in his life, that Moffios really weren’t the worst thing she could be eating but he’d never told her about the alternatives because she’d try them just to see what they tasted like, that he loved her, that he loved her, that he loved her—and then his stomach flipped and darkness streamed out over them, fast and long and almost violent. There was something, a long-moment of awful something, before there was Nothing and Bentley knew no more.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes after.

**Epilogue**

            Tommy Hangar, while late-night dusting, absentmindedly turned on the TV to a ‘breaking news’ report about some disaster in Kabul. She paid it little mind—it was just for background noise, after all—until she heard the magic phrase, “Alcor the Dreambender,” and then suddenly she was Very Invested in this cover story. Tommy dropped the Everlasting Handheld Dustmop (also known as a rag with a bunch of spells in it in order to make it hardier and better at dusting) and stared for a moment before she recovered her wits.

            “Hon,” she called out, easing onto the couch like she was afraid it might bite, gaze focused on the screen on the wall showing a couple of well-dressed reporters. “Hon, you want to see this!”

            “I’m in the bathroom!” Filara’s voice was muffled by the door and distance between them. Tommy reached out with one finger and slid the volume up on the television unit.  

            “ _…see, the damage to the city was located in a somewhat economically depressed sector just east of the main downtown center. It seems to have started in this block of rented townhomes, as you can see from the aerial shot provided by first responders to the scene._ ”

            “Then hurry pissing and get out there, you want to see this!” Tommy yelled.

            “It’s a number two!” Tommy heard, but shortly after there was the sound of the toilet unit being flushed. Tommy leaned forward, her elbows on her legs, and stared at the devastation depicted even as the news anchors described it.

            “ _Shockwaves were reported at 3:26 local time to a nearby fire station from a location nearly a kilometer away from the epicenter. Shortly after, several buildings shook as though an extended earthquake event was occurring. Pedestrians were thrown from their feet, and some were crushed under collapsing walls that were torn apart by the force of the blows exchanged between two demonic forces. As we said earlier, one of the two demons was positively identified to be Alcor the Dreambender._ ”

            On the screen, buildings were partially to fully collapsed the closer they were to the epicenter, a partially still-standing block of townhomes. One of them had a hole in the roof, from what Tommy could see before the view faded back to the two anchors, faces stern. Down the hall, the bathroom door opened.

            “ _That’s correct, Penny,_ ” the centaur said, their tail swishing behind them in what Tommy thought might be agitation. “ _Several consulting demonologists on the second-response team were quick to point out that not only was Alcor the Dreambender participating in a fight, but his opponent was another rather strong demon titled Lilith. From what we understand, the battle lasted perhaps three minutes above Kabul before being relocated to the nearby Hindu Kush mountains, but the consequences of the short encounter were huge for Kabul_.”

            “All right, what do I have to see?” Filara asked, reaching over the back of the couch and pressing a kiss to Tommy’s neck. Tommy shivered and reached up to curve her hand along Filara’s cheek.

            “Just watch,” Tommy said. Filara hummed, then did that thing where she just climbed over the back of the couch instead of walking around to the other side like a normal person. Tommy sighed, and adjusted so that she could lean against Filara, her chin hooking into the valley of Filara’s shoulder.

            “ _So far, almost five hundred residences and places of work have been labeled non-viable, just over fifty have been found dead, and a further ninety six people have been injured. Experts estimate that there should be another one hundred casualties, though they differ in opinion on how many of these casualties should be fatal or simply injured._ ”

            Filara hummed. “This is awful, but why should I be seeing this?”

            “Shh,” Tommy said, patting Filara’s stomach.

            On screen, the centaur’s human companion nodded gravely. She picked up a data pad, glanced down at it, and then addressed the camera. “ _While it is historically one of the less traumatic incidences of fighting between Alcor and other demons, experts say to exercise caution. According to these experts, Alcor’s reemergence after such a long period of inactivity is something to watch. Please do not attempt to summon Alcor the Dreambender, as you will be putting your life as well of the lives of everybody around you at risk._ ”

            “Oh,” Filara said. She rubbed her hand down Tommy’s side. “Ah. I see.”

            “ _Unsurprisingly, when looking at historical cases such as the event that caused the formation of the Californian Federation over two millennia ago, this demonic encounter also made big changes to the environment. Mishana, take it away._ ”

            The centaur nodded. “ _Of course. It seems that, from initial reports, that the massively toxic Kabul river has somehow been purified of said dangerous toxins. The river has never been clearer. This footage, of the site where experts are nearly certain the remainder of the demonic encounter took place, will show you this odd phenomenon currently taking place._ ” The camera shifted to pan a view of what looked like it was a normal mountain range just a while ago, but now was some kind of weird freaky smooth melted-stone valley. The hair on the back of Tommy’s neck stood up just looking at it. She got further goosebumps at the way the river changed from murky and viscous to clear and quick at one point near the far end of the valley.

            “Well,” Filara said. “I’m not sure I ever want him in my house again, nice as it was to talk to him.”

            “Don’t think we have any kind of choice,” Tommy said, quietly. She stared at the screen. “And, well, as fucking awful as that horror shit looks, it can’t be all bad? I mean, the river’s so clear you could probably peep through it and see somebody changing on the other side.”

            Filara huffed. “Yes, romantic, way to remind me of how we met.”

            “Accident,” Tommy drawled. She had let Filara know that her windows should probably be dimmed, just in case, and by the way that was a cute mole she had on her butt. “Also, this house is in one piece, right? And so are we? And that little kiddiwink hangs around him. Could be worse.”

            On the screen, the news agency showed videos of the destruction in the mountains next to ones of the devastation in Kabul proper. Filara sighed. “Could be worse indeed.”

* * *

_Pandemonium Server: “Sigil_Works”_

General Channel

 

**Karl Svinhish 7:39 AM**

Posting in all channels: Just as a reminder to all personnel, today is a half-day! Please only work three hours of your six. If you work more, we will know. We will find you. You will go home at some point.

 

**Ennis Hart 7:41 AM**

lol what u gonna do, u can’t stop us from thinking at home, we got shit to get done and thru before the Terminator comes back

also u don’t gotta do that in all channels smh

 

**Karl Svinhish 7:41 AM**

We cannot stop you from doing anything outside of the workplace, but please be reminded that as Thinktank department personnel, our insurance does not cover you for any sigil work done outside the premises!

 

**Sally Minh 7:42 AM**

wait, mr. farkas is back??

 

**Ziyi Zhang 7:42 AM**

Wait what??? My favorite????? Where was he????????

 

**Ennis Hart 7:42 AM**

how the shit is bentley farkas, destroyer of dreams and rejecter of perfectly good plans, your fav

 

**Ziyi Zhang 7:43 AM**

Bentley Farkas is a God among Mortals and you should not profane his name like this

 

**Sally Minh 7:44 AM**

honestly, mr. farkas is Sigils Goals

 

**Anish Wellington 7:44 AM**

Do we know what happened to him? He was kidnapped, right?

 

**Lucas Onderon 7:45 AM**

yall are loud way too early in the morning. go away morning people

 

**Ennis Hart 7:45 AM**

yeah he kidnapped i think?? i think sally took that phone call

also lucas turn us on mute if you want to sleep

 

**Lucas Onderon 7:46 AM**

But now were talking about the mysterious mister farkas I need to put in my two cents

 

**Sally Minh 7:47 AM**

yes, the police said that there had been an incident and that it looked like mr. farkas had been the victim of some kind of kidnapping, and had officially been listed as a missing person. they only  told me because literally nobody else was at work.

 

**Anish Wellington 7:48 AM**

Thank you Sally. I will be sleeping again but if there are any updates, please tag me.

 

**Sally Mihn 7:48 AM**

Ok!

**Lucas Onderon 7:48 AM**

and that is that benny boy might act super nice and be super smart and all that shit, but he got a stick up his ass and needs to chill out instead of freaking out over every single proposal we send him. hed gotten unbearable after minhaj left.

 

**Ziyi Zhang 7:49 AM**

#internlife

also u know that @BentleyFarkas is in this chat, right?? He’s going to see all of this.

 

**Lucas Onderon 7:50 AM**

hes nerver in here nayways

lkadjklwj

*never in here anyways

 

**Karl Svinhish 7:50 AM**

Please refrain from being rude! We do not tolerate bullying and rudeness in this chat, especially when those being bullied have been kidnapped and recently escaped said kidnapping!

 

**Ennis Hart 7:51 AM**

holy shit wait he escaped?? Not police action or whatever??

 

**Sally Minh 7:51 AM**

Is he okay?

 

**Ziyi Zhang 7:52 AM**

yeah is he ok? Any deets?

 

**Lucas Onderon 7:52 AM**

Bentley ‘gives in to puppy dog eyes’ farkas actually escaped? What?? you cant just leve it at that

*leave

@BentleyFarkas explain

 

**Karl Svinhish 7:53 AM**

Leave him alone! He is recovering, and will be on indefinite leave of absence.

 

**Lucas Onderon 7:53 AM**

Paid???

 

**Karl Svinhish 7:53 AM**

There is the possibility that he will be working remotely!

 

**Ennis Hart 7:54 AM**

But u said we cant take work home???? insurance doesn’t cover outside work premises????

 

**Karl Svinhish 7:54 AM**

That’s for the Thinktank department! Bentley Farkas has been consistently attentive to detail and is one of the leading minds in this field, and as such we have entered negotiations with our insurance agency.

 

**Ziyi Zhang 7:56 AM**

why you hatin? bentley farkas is a god of sigils. i would say more but bentley is in this server.

 

**Ennis Hart 7:56 AM**

U don’t see him in thinktank do u

 

**Sally Minh 7:56 AM**

bc hes too good for thinktank

**Bentley Farkas 7:57 AM**

That’s bc Im too good at practics 4 u

 

**Lucas Onderon 7:57 AM**

bc hes overrated is what and thinktank knows that

 

**Ziyi Zhang 7:57 AM**

**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BENTLEY??!??!!??!?**

**Sally Minh 7:58 AM**

  1. farkas???



 

**Lucas Onderon 7:58 AM**

holy shit

 

**Bentley Farkas 7:59 AM**

The rumors of my death were highly exaggerated. but im only saying that im alive and have my hands on a phone. i probs wont be coming back to work for a while. working things out.

 

**Ennis Hart 7:59 AM**

send us a pic or ur an imposter

 

**Karl Svinish 8:00 AM**

Please don’t feel pressured to do anything Bentley! We’re with you all the way. Also please send me the documents we discussed yesterday as soon as possible.

 

**Bentley Farkas 8:00 AM**

It’s ok, promise not to scream.

IMG_59703

 

**Ziyi Zhang 8:00 AM**

@AnishWellington GET BACK IN HERE HOLY SHIT

WHAT THE FUCK BENTLEY

* * *

            “ _Hey, this is Torako Lam! Leave a text for me after the beep, unless you’re my dads, in which case leave me a VM so that I can hear your voices! Have a great day, and stay cool._ ”

-beep-

            “Hey Tora, this is your dear old Dad! Just calling in to check and see how you’re doing. You missed our weekly call yesterday. I know that Bentley going missing has been a big blow, and I’m worried about you. Please call me back! If nothing else, I can sort of keep you company for a bit. Love you lots!”

-beep-

            “Torako, is everything okay? You haven’t responded to my texts or your Father’s. Your workplace said that you were on suspension. I just want to make sure that you’re doing all right. Tyrone hasn’t answered his phone either, and Bentley is obviously out of the question. Please call us back. Any time is okay, even at a god-awful hour in the morning. Love you so much, bye.”

-beep-

            “Torako, this is Mama. Your Father called me, said that your Dad and he hadn’t heard from you at all lately? What’s up with that darling? They’re getting frightened that you’re dead. I told them that that’s nonsense, you’re far too tough for that. Your Father and I made you, after all! Then again, we made you, so I am a very small bit worried. If you have some troubles you can’t tell your Dad or Father, you can tell me. I know I’ve been busy recently, but I can make time for you. Loves and smooches, your Mama.”

-beep-

            “Torako, what’s going on?? It’s been a week, and all we’ve heard out of you is one solitary ‘I love you, I’m alive’ text. Which, thank you, but also that’s worrying! Are you in danger? Is Tyrone gone too? I tried talking to some of your old hurling friends, but none of them know where you are. I will get on a port to your apartment in the next day if you don’t respond. I love you, but please tell me that you’re okay! Goodbye.”

-beep-

            “Yo, Tora, it’s Hana, long time no talk! So your Dad contacted me yesterday about you being like out of town or out of touch or something? And I’m a little concerned?? I heard from him that your life partner went missing, which is sad and also makes me worried about you. Are you okay? I’m here for you if you need me. Catch you later!”

-beep-

            “Torako, this is Officer Akuapem. Hepsa has been getting better. They think she can return to work next month. I hope things are going well for you. We are continuing to investigate. There seems to be a lead into Canada. We have been tracing emails. Maybe you already know this; we had a report of a break and enter a few days ago. It was to someone we thought might be tied into the investigation. Please be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

-beep-

            “Tora, this is Lata’s mom. She said something about seeing you last night! Thank you for following up on that message; you don’t seem to have received any of my texts, so I thought I would try my had at a VM. It’s been so long since I left one! Again, thank you very much. When you find Bentley, let him know he was missed! I hope he is okay. That’s all, thanks! Goodbye!”

-beep-

            “What’s going on Torako? Why did you send me that cryptic message that you love me and that if you don’t message me again you failed? What are you failing? Are you doing something stupid? Please don’t do this Torako. Don’t do this to us. Please be safe. I love you. Be safe. Stay safe. We love you.”

-beep-

            “This is your Father. Please be careful. Your Dad is worried sick. We love you. Stay safe. Come home soon.”

-beep-

_End of messages. Do you want to delete these messages? Select yes, no, or other options._

_Other options selected. Your options are: respond with call, respond via VM, respond via text, respond via film video, select and archive messages, forward mes—_

_Respond with call selected. Which messages would you like to respond to? Please select the releva—_

_Message “_ What’s going on Torako? Why—” _selected. Sender: Dad. Time: 3 hours ago. Are you sure you want to select this message? Yes or—_

_Understood. Calling in three…two…one._

-ring-

-ri—

            “Torako??!”

“Yo, hey Dad. Uh. Hi. How are you.”

“Torako?? Are you okay?? Where are you, what’s going on, is everything all right, what in the Fathomless Seas made you send such a frightening message?”

“So, funny story.” A laugh. “Not funny, but I’m more or less okay, only minimally hurt and traumatized. It’s fine. Also we’re outside right now.”

Silence.

“Outside??”

“Yeah, and uh,” Torako said, “Bentley’s been through shit and there’s some stuff we haven’t told you. So like. Yeah. Don’t scream when you come outside.”

Footsteps. “Scream, why would I scream?”

Opening door. Quick inhale, then the start of a scream before it is muffled behind a hand.

“I’ll explain everything, I promise,” Torako said. “Can we…come in?”

A pause. When spoken, the voice is a little strained. “Okay. Come in please.”

“Thank you, now let me just—” A click, and a dial tone that cuts out.

* * *

            The study was large and well-lit by two giant windows. Their thin, magically reinforced glass panes somehow seemed to let in more sunlight than they should be capable of, like they were capturing brightness and magnifying it to a subtle degree. There was a slightly dusty off-white desk in front of the shorter window at the head of the room. Stacks of books and papers and tablets towered in neat, short little hills, and there was an old-fashioned ballpoint pen sat in the middle, near a clear space for the user to sit at and work. A pair of archivists gloves was nearby, and a desk lamp floated at one corner. At the other corner, there was a small vase with two bright orange lilies caught in stasis.

            Runes flared along the edges of the ceiling, turning brighter and brighter until they burst in a small thunderclap of sound. The wallpaper tore, burned, and ash rained down on the formerly pristine room. It dotted the long red couch perpendicular to the desk in deceptively soft flakes, fragile and dangerous all at once. Flakes of burning wallpaper continued to fall down even as another presence filled the room, blacks and golds and browns and pale skin. Alcor the Dreambender cast his gaze about the room, face utterly still as he took it all in. The ash did not touch him. Nobody entered the room.

            He blinked, long and languid, at the floor to ceiling storage shelves containing all matter of memorabilia and research materials. He stared out the window at the deep, endless ocean, waves crashing against the cliffs below. He set his eyes on the desk, inhaled, and then drifted closer. With one gloved hand, he picked up one of the stacked antique books— _Gleeful, Silent, Ferocious_ —and looked through it, flipping the pages slowly. He paused on one and read it more carefully, then snorted. “They get the funniest ideas,” he said, and he shut the book, set it on the desk carefully.

            Then he tilted his head at the tome. It had some wrong bits, but it wasn’t all that bad. There were a few that were decent, actually. Dipper tugged them from under the other stacks, sending them sliding down and across the desk. Torako would like them, he thought. And a couple were like, super rare, so if nothing else she could sell them online and get bank.

            Alcor slid the books into his stomach, feeling a little sick at the memory of pulling the three of them out of him: Bentley unconscious and with a sluggish heartbeat, Torako wide-eyed and trembling and barely keeping it together, Haji freaked out beyond measure. He’d made a deal—those memories for the means to get out of Kabul and somewhere safe—but Torako had refused to, clutching Bentley to her with a wild, nearly feral look on her face. But they were safe, now. They were safe.

            Though, Dipper thought as he considered exactly what he’d just done with the books, he’d still be careful about pulling them out in front of people. Maybe he wouldn’t pull them out in front of Bentley or Torako at all. Yes. That was the safest option. Torako’s dads would also possibly mind it if he extricated the books from his demonic bowels via tentacle too, thinking about it. Alone. Alone it was.

            He then looked up at the splash of orange, the lilies in the crystal vase, spinning slowly midair. Alcor the Dreambender reached out, and his gloves melted away so that his bare fingers could touch the petals. Lurid. Bright. Beautiful.

            If he’d gotten his hands on Fantino’s soul, they would have either been eaten, or would have suffered debilitating allergies to flowers for the next several lives.

            Instead Dipper withdrew his fingers and looked at the flowers. Then, he reached out again, blue fire sparking along the channels of friction ridges in the pads of his fingers, and touched them. The fire sputtered, then flared, consuming the flowers and shooting down the line of magic tethering them to the desk. Dipper stared at it, looked through the desk to the manuscripts of new publications in progress, and smiled. The fire wouldn’t stop until the house burned down.

            Dipper stayed a moment longer just to see the books and the desk and the tablets burst into flame, and then he blipped out of the study and its long, beautiful windows and its pristine pale features. The windows caught the light inside and amplified it, gently, subtly, to glow a soft blue that didn’t alarm the neighbors until it was too late for anything of Dr. Vallian Fantino to be saved.

* * *

The air was heavy with salt, enough that when Bentley opened his mouth and breathed he could taste it on his tongue. It was also heavy with the sound of the tide, crashing and crumbling and receding with the tide. This beach was empty because of the dangerously sharp rocks tumbling on the seafloor not even two meters in from the edge. Honestly, though, that suited Bentley just fine, early in the morning with the night coolness still clinging to the breeze. Bentley closed his eyes, and breathed it in.

            It had been five days since they’d gone home, to Torako’s parents, and he still wasn’t tired of the feeling of natural air against his skin. He was tired of having to eat soft, bland food, and was tired of how odd it felt to go to the bathroom, but he wasn’t tired of being somewhere that rubbed against his skin and filled his chest with thrumming energy. He wasn’t tired of being able to refuse to go to a hospital, and instead have a hospital come to him.

            He also wasn’t tired of the feeling of sand on his skin. Bentley smiled, and wriggled his feet deeper into the soft sand. When he opened his eyes, the residual magic of it glimmered, just enough to be noticed but not enough to be distracting. It was nice. It was okay. It would be okay.

            Out further, where the sand became damp and the waves foamed with the force of their collisions, the water also glimmered, deep and dark like Dipper sometimes was. Bentley could see it now, more than ever: Dipper’s continuing influence on the islands, even after a long two millennia. It would have been something that explained how Dipper was able to hide his energy signature here so well. It would have been something Bentley’s Dad would have loved to know. Bentley set his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and looked out to sea.

            “What would you have thought of all this?” Bentley wondered out loud. The wind picked at his short hair, his long sleeves and his pants, and he felt cold despite the relative warmth. He thought about Fantino, and said, “What do you think of me now?”

            “What does who think of you now?”

            Bentley stiffened, but let out a deep breath and looked up over his shoulder. “Torako,” he said, and the warmth inside him wasn’t fake even if his dumb brain wouldn’t let go of the fact he’d dreamed about her being mean. Ugh.

            “Me? I think you’re pretty great,” she said, a crooked smile on her face. She dug her toes into the sand, sandals hanging from two hooked fingers. Bentley let out a fond, exasperated sigh.

             “Thanks,” Bentley said. “I think you’re pretty great too. Most of the time, at least.”

            Torako gasped and held her hand over her heart. “Only _most_ of the time? Your conditional love wounds me.”

            Bentley snorted. “Sit down already, you goof.”

            She laughed and sat, legs stretching out, heels digging long trenches into the soft sand. Bentley watched how the morning sunlight glinted off the scars running root-like over her shins and calves, tangled and thin and innumerable. They too glimmered with magical byproduct. Everything glimmered these days, just about.

            “Hey.” Torako nudged his shoulder with hers. “It’s not a big deal, doesn’t even hurt.”

            “Because the doctors caught it in time to mitigate the damage, you mean.” Bentley shut out false memories of physical and emotional abuse and leaned into her. “Otherwise, you might have barely been able to walk because it would have hurt you so much.”

            Torako hummed. “Eh.”

            “Your bones had been shattered and then _fused back together_ ,” Bentley said. “You’re lucky it was fresh enough and _magical_ enough that they could do a localized rewind on the bones.” Curses weren’t generally regarded as lucky, but in this case it was lucky that they could treat Torako’s leg as a curse.

            “Not the end of the world.” Torako shifted her legs so that her ankles crossed. Sand clung, dry, to her toes. “Besides, it didn’t happen, I’m fine. It’s a non-issue at this point, unlike you.”  

            This time, Bentley gasped and held his hand over his heart. “I’m an issue?” He knew when to leave something alone, even if shattering and melting was pretty damn traumatizing in his book.

            “Shut up, you’re not,” Torako said, grinning. She tousled his hair, and he hid a smile behind one hand at the familiarity. “No, I’m talking about what that place did to you—and don’t say it’s just cosmetic, you little shit.”

            Back at you, Bentley thought but didn’t say. “I mean,” he said instead, waving a hand at his face, “It kind of is? I look very different, and the nurse that visited said there wasn’t anything physically wrong with me.”

            “Pssh, I don’t need a nurse to tell that you’re also cold, like, all the time.” She pulled him closer and he let her, because he _was_ cold and she looked very warm. “And you look at stuff funny sometimes, and you haven’t touched sigils since coming back, and the theft detector at the grocery store screamed at you going in. I think we need another specialist to come in to see you, actually.”

            “Let’s not. Also, the detector wasn’t my fault.” Bentley frowned at the waves further out, not because they had done anything wrong but because the grocery store experience had been awful. He would have made the very bad decision of running away if Torako hadn’t been with him, and if she hadn’t been shaking herself. They’d ended up just going home and letting her dads do the shopping.

            “Yes, that is true. But they never went off on you before, so that place absolutely did something to you. Somethings, even.”

            Bentley took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, then gave her a little noncommittal hum and snuggled into her. She was warm, as he’d thought. Torako slid her hand into his. He listened to her heartbeat, steady against the backdrop of crashing waves. They curled further into each other in silence. Bentley ended up with his legs slung over the valley of her lap, head resting at the hollow of her collarbone, her chin nestled on top of his head. Her arms were secure around him. It was…nice.

            He’d almost drifted off when she asked, “So what’s next?”

            The first somewhat intelligible sound he made was “Huh?” It was also probably the third of fourth sound he’d made, the first few being byproducts of transitioning into clearer awareness. Somewhere in the distance, seabirds called out. The horn of a fishing boat sounded, the blare of it softened by space. Bentley let out a slow breath, content.

            “What do we do now?” Torako asked. “Somehow, even if by some miracle I graduate, I don’t think that Officer Akuapem would support me entering the police force. And will you even go back to work? What do we—what happens, after the shit that we just went through?”

            Bentley cracked his eyes open. Before him, the beach stretched on into the horizon, buildings rising out of it and pressing up, up into the sky. On the left was the sea, dark with crests of white, shimmering with sunlight and supernatural energy. “I’ve been considering it. Going back, I mean. But…”

            Torako squeezed his hand, and waited for him to answer.

            “Sigils are…hard.” Bentley looked at their hands, at his mismatched fingers interspersed between hers. “And I don’t think I’ll stay there forever. Plus, you’re higher priority. I’ll go wherever you need to.”

            “No, silly, _I_ go where _you_ go.” She hugged him tighter. “You were in there a long time. You call the shots.”

            “And you found me,” Bentley murmured. He shifted back so he could look her in the eyes, so that she knew how much she _meant_. How much she mattered. “You searched long and hard and found me. I wouldn’t have…” he stopped, suddenly filled with shame and guilt and horror. He looked away, to the sea.

            Torako leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. “You would have died,” she said. “You would have killed yourself.” Her voice shook a little when she said the words for him.

            Bentley swallowed against the stiffness of his throat, because she was right, and because he couldn’t say it. He knew it, but he couldn’t say it.

            “And that…” Torako took a deep breath. She pulled him back to her with soft but firm hands. “That really upsets me. Really. But you were—alone, and desperate, for so so long, so. I understand. It’s not okay but…I understand.”

            He squeezed her hand, watched the waves crumble into the sand. Watched them pull back, and do it over, and over, and over.

            “And we’re going to talk about that, as soon as you’re ready. First, though—what’s next? We can’t stay with my dads forever. Tyrone just about gives them a heart attack every time he shows up, I’m sure of it. They’re going to snap eventually.”

            Bentley managed a short laugh. “Yeah.” He breathed in, then out, then in and asked, “What do you want?”

            “Me?”

            “Yeah,” he said. “I might be able to do remote work. So. What do you want?”

            This time, Torako was silent, and Bentley waited.

            “I don’t want to make you upset,” Torako said at length.

            “You won’t.” Bentley turned and pressed his cheek to her collarbone.

            She still hesitated. Birds called, the ocean sang a symphony, and somebody let out a jubilant shout for whatever reason, and Torako remained silent next to him.

            Bentley shifted to press a kiss to her collarbone instead of his cheek, and then slid his forehead to the same spot. “I promise.” If he got upset, he’d get over it.

            Torako let out a sigh of frustration. “Like, I miss it. Cult bashing. Parts of it, I mean, not everything. Being away from you sucked a lot.”

            He hummed to let her know he was still listening.

            “And I hate that you were missing. Like, even cult bashing, when I knew you were safe, I hated it. When I didn’t know? Hell. It was stressful, I was always tired, Dipper was a mess and I was a mess and everything was awful. Except, it kind of wasn’t. Looking back, there were parts I liked, you know?”

            When she didn’t continue immediately, Bentley prompted, “Like?”

            She nuzzled her nose into his hair. “Putting pieces together,” she murmured. “Not having all the bureaucratic tape to deal with. The thrill, sometimes. Imminent danger, not so much, but the adrenaline was…nice.”

            This wasn’t upsetting at all, though Bentley could maybe see why she thought he would think so. He didn’t say that yet, though. “So what’s next then?”

            There was a moment where all he heard from her was her breath, and then she asked, “You’re not upset?”

            “No,” he said. “So, tell me—what’s next?”

            “I,” she said. Then, she laughed and she tousled his hair again. “I asked you first, fishbrains! What’s next, huh, Bentley?”

            “Hey!” He swatted at her hand and rolled off her lap to kneel next to her. She was smiling, hair still slightly damp from her morning shower, tank-top sliding off her right shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with something that wasn’t magic, but Bentley almost felt was. Fondness blooming gentle in him, he raised his hands and cradled her face between them. Her smile slipped, eyes wide, and she looked at him like he was the most amazing thing in the world.

            He loved her, he realized again. He loved her like he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He didn’t love her like he wanted to engage in any kind of kissing, or groping, or even dating, but he wanted—he wanted. He wanted her with him for the rest of his life, and it was a realization that he’d made a long time ago but still didn’t know quite what to do with. Torako was—vibrant, and wonderful, and he’d long resigned himself to the possibility of another person wedging themselves between them, better and stronger. And maybe it wasn’t a healthy thought; pan trios, and quads, and even quints existed in the world, but something in him didn’t _want_ another person. The rest of him knew that was selfish, and wrong, and that if Torako wanted to go, if she needed to go—he wouldn’t get in the way.

            But by the seas and the stars did he love her.

            “We…take it a day at a time,” he said.

            “That’s specific,” she said, eyebrows quirking and mouth slanting up, cockeyed.

            “Oh hush. We take it a day at a time,” he said again. “We figure our shit out as we go, and know that things’ll go wrong but that’s okay. We talk.”

            “I would hope so.”

            He smooshed her cheeks in, and she laughed, eyes squinting almost shut with joy. Bentley laughed at the sight of her.

            Gripping her cheeks between his fingers and pulling them out a little, he said, “We do stupid shit and try new things and try old things again. We…don’t stay on Minte de Daos, because, you know, Tyrone.”

            Torako reached out and grabbed his own face, so he quickly let go of her cheeks. She smirked at him. “Good plan. Very detailed.”

            “And,” he said, shuffling closer. The sand shifted around him. “We go back home. You see about school, I see about doing work away from work and cutting it down to part time, because I’m…messed up.” He bit his lip, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before soldiering on. “I’m messed up, and I need help but I can’t _get_ it because of what exactly went down. So I do my best to help myself. And I do my best to help you help yourself.”

            Torako nodded. Her palms relaxed against his cheeks. “Yeah. I can’t be your therapist, and you can’t be mine.”

            “And then, when you’re done with school…you look into options. Like, I don’t know, a private investigator.”

            She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, that’s so much paperwork.”

            “So something else,” Bentley said, just as he heard a soft noise, like something tearing, like the sound of smoothing out a sheet of paper. “We can—we can figure it out as we go. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

            “What are we figuring out as we go?” Dipper asked. “And why are we holding each other’s faces?”

            Bentley looked up at Dipper, staring down at the both of them. Torako did the same. Dipper’s eyes were black and gold, even though the rest of him was as human as possible. “What to do next,” Bentley said.

            “Yeah, Tyrone,” Torako asked. “What’s next?”

            Dipper frowned at them. He pressed his lips together, and something flashed across his face before he shoved it down. Bentley’s smile dimmed, and he opened his mouth to—apologize? Say something?–when Dipper grinned wide and a little too sharp, and said, “There’s lots of options, but apparently one ends with either Torako or Bentley with sand up to their necks, so. There’s that!”

            Bentley looked at Torako, her face framed by his hands. Torako looked at him, and squished his cheeks a little. Then Torako looked up, smiled prettily in that way that made Bentley’s internal alarms scream with urgency, and said, “I think you left out an option,” before tackling Dipper into the sand. Dipper squawked and went down flailing his limbs and sending beach flying everywhere.

            “Get off! I am an almighty creature of pure energy!”

            Torako caught Bentley’s eye over her shoulder, and he grinned. With a little trepidation, a little nervousness, he sunk his finger into the sand. There was a moment after where he stared at the sand, its magic, and wondered if this was really such a good idea. He’d caused a lot of damage, back in the pocket dimension. The sand had power of its own, who knew how that would interact?

            Dipper screeched, Torako laughed, and Bentley drew a sigil. Behind them, the ocean undulated, waves cresting white out of the darkness of the water, seafoam fizzing against the porous sand of the shore. The tides moved, the currents shifted according to latent, now natural energy. Above, seabirds called and searched for food. A fishing boat pulled in its haul, protected by spells to ensure it wouldn’t lose any of its catch to mercenary fowl. A man on the beach a kilometer away kept staring at his phone and grinning. The mermaid civilization a few clicks away wove new birthing homes into being. A children’s class practiced hula on the shore, a cervitaur held up a shell to the sun to see how the light shone through, an old married couple held hands and walked, slow, along the tide where the sand was wet and firm and their rings glinted in the early morning.

            The world glimmered, bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everybody who commented, who gave kudos, and who lurked! I'm grateful for those who stayed with me all the way, for those who started but whose interest fell, and for those who picked it up partway through. Thank you for reading about Bentley and Torako and Dipper!  
> This concludes Orange Lilies. Hopefully there is more to come, but this part of their story is done.


End file.
